Metamorphosis
by KatxValentine
Summary: War was won. Friends were lost. Enemies were vanquished. Hermione Granger could not feel beyond an insomniac's detachment. With Bellatrix Lestrange found alive, can she be exemplified, or is this battle a losing one, too? For Hermione, it all feels pointless beyond a glimmer. -Eventual Bellatrix/Hermione-
1. Prologue: The Ghost of You

**As a Harry Potter novice I'm going to fully admit I'm not the least bit versed in what I'm doing, so one must bear with me. I'm reading the books now and just re-watched all the movies with my aunt, and I thought, hey Bellatrix and Hermione, how about that? And I love crazy, vicious characters with a potential for huge development. I don't own any of this stuff, and I'd love helpful reviews if you guys would be so kind as to tell me what I'm doing wrong or right! Thanks mucho for reading and hanging around these parts.**

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**"You know that when I hate you, it is because I love you to a point of passion that unhinges my soul."-Julie de Lespinasse**

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As a child she had never rightly learned that, when touched, the stove was hot, and her hands were frailer than the strange, beguiling discs that glowed such a ferocious ember orange.

She had not cared because she would stand there and stare as it heated, her honey brown eyes very large and very round. She'd insistently watch once she was sure her dad or her mum had fled the scene to go about another matter of business for even a few precious moments, and then she would sidle into the kitchen, as quiet as a mouse, and she would wait. The ring would gradually illuminate until it was borderline red, and it was then she felt all too compelled to feel, to see the color with her hands. She wanted to understand.

Each time she went wailing and weeping to her mum or dad, apologizing between bubbly, childish sobs, nursing where her fingers had grazed the heat. It hurt, and it burned, but she thought, by touching it, she could better understand it. She could gather this strange thing known as heat if she found an immunity, a kinship to it.

Hermione Granger had never learned to stop touching the fire, and in spite of its burn, she always allowed the pain to settle before she jerked away. It was the one thing that made the brightest witch of her age a fool.

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She could not dismiss pain, agony in the same way a more basic-minded individual could. Hermione hated in great bursts. They were fiery touches of fury that often took her in their throes, but she was not good at grudges, and she was even less talented at hatred unfounded. It was simple to feel pain, to express discomfort, and to revile the source that had caused the terrible sensation. The 'bad' guys wore black and the 'good' guys wore white, and the 'bad' guys made pain, and the 'good' guys made happiness, reasons for celebration. Or, at least, that was the way the world worked to almost every soul who did not seem to be the Gryffindor brunette.

She should have been happy. The girl recognized this. And she _had_ been happy, until it felt like the world was turning on its ear once again.

Hogwarts had become a prison to a large number of criminals, and the Wizarding World cried out for the blood of Voldemort's former Death Eaters, demanding such a plague be wiped for their earth once and for all. _Hate begets hate;_ she thought bitterly, _violence begets violence_. It was a vicious cycle, a mad dog chasing its own chewed-through tail who whimpered and bled each time it was caught, reeling to snap its frothy jaws and resume the dance again once it was deemed unsatisfactory.

The Ministry needed reinstating. Kingsley Shacklebolt would be next in line for Minister, so that scrap of grand news had surfaced. He was a kind, respectful, just man, tried and true. She could hope he would make right decisions.  
And each time she walked into the soon-to-be-rebuilt castle, the stone structures she could very well call her home, she shivered beneath the cold weight of it all. Above her the lives of countless men and women hung in the balance. Perhaps it was naive to try to think the best of everyone, but it seemed unfair to so simply judge a life by its wrong actions, to condemn to death over the ease of poor choices made. She knew she had looked at Harry, looked at her best friend, looked at her cause with an unyielding light, a sure decision that the choices she had made were a righteous path.

Her memory of Bellatrix Lestrange was as constantly unyielding as that unwavering devotion to her cause- well, to what had been her cause. The War was won. She had to remind herself of that often. Her cause was newly evolving.

Bellatrix had believed in Voldemort- in her _Dark Lord_, as she had been so fond of saying- with a fanaticism that bordered on the admirable in its devotion. It had been a shame such natural talent was wasted on an insane monster of a woman who had tossed it carelessly away to dash headfirst into a race-war without any convictions that seemed her own. If it wasn't Voldemort's cause, it was a psychotic purebred supremacy. And muggle psychology easily enough deduced that was a family view.

But Bellatrix Lestrange had believed in Voldemort, in their War, like six-year-old children believed in Tinkerbell, and Hermione did not rightly know if she could convict such a strong belief with a clear conscience. The Death Eaters wanted her dead because, on their side of the playing field, Harry Potter and every muggle-born Witch and Wizard, every Pureblood who dared to openly coerce with the muggle-borns they saw as filth, were in the wrong.

Tricky, tricky things. It made the question of a life taken a moral one, and she wondered what it would weigh in the palm of her hand, the measure of a mortal life. Nothing was so simple.

She dismissed the ideas above her for the second time that day and continued on to find the Gryffindor common room, and within all the things in sore need of repair. There was only so much magic could do, and sometimes even the mystical needed a little physical labor. It was times like these she thanked goodness for her muggle parents, and the understanding for hard work that had been instilled in her. Magic was a worthy way out of things, a very easy fix, but it wasn't rare for a Witch or a Wizard to find themselves hopelessly hitting the brick wall when it came to the seemingly tedious nature of elbow grease. For Hermione, the muggle way of doing things was a stress relief. It was uncomplicated in a time of far too much complication.

No one had ever told her winning a War would be as controversial as losing it would be miserable.

So she tried to keep her thoughts quiet and occupied with the tasks at hand. The broom as it brushed the floor, the bits of dust and dirt kicked up and aside. And she tried to keep out the brewing anxiety in her chest that sank like a stone. All those ways a man or a woman could be so simply sentenced to an end through another's decision, and who had the rights to such things.

And how Bellatrix Lestrange had died for her cause the same way dear Harry had briefly died for his.


	2. The Stranger in Yourself

**I appreciate all the follows for this story. I wish they were reviews, but if wishes were fishes, right? Haha. Anyhow, thanks to every pair of eyes looking at this screen and reading this right now. It gladdens me to know I've got some sense of understanding where these characters are concerned. I apologize for the lack of Bellatrix in Prologue. To be honest I'm still ironing out some details and I have to get a bunch of things in order to properly begin a plot. Plots? Who needs those?! ...Apparently me. **

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The days wore on and on. The sun rose and it set, and the students who had remained behind to lend hands, apable backs, and strong shoulders slumbered. For some it came easier than others. A good lot felt a distinct unease with so many prisoners crammed under McGonagall's watchful eye. Certainly not because the teacher was incapable, heavens, no. Certainly because it could be troubling to lie awake at night and consider the people contained in the same Castle who would have liked nothing more than to kill the surviving students, to claim revenge for their fallen Lord.

Hermione Granger was one such student stricken with the burden of insomnia.

Dawn had just cracked and bathed the grounds in warmth, and it was hard to adjust to normalcy when so many years of their adult lives had been spent in paranoia. It wasn't always out in the open, not obvious, but latent, a whispering threat. Without that same fear- well, she could comprehend in her own way why soldiers returning from war did not adjust so excellently.

Without suspecting dark corners, how did one properly deal with their obscured shadows?

It was hard to believe that not a week or two ago this had been a prison for every student, child and adult, housed within. She sat on a grassy knoll none too far from Hagrid's Hut and deeply considered visiting the half-giant, being it was inevitable he was just waking, but decided against it. Come to think, she hadn't been monstrously social as of late, a fact that would likely worry Ron into a fit and Harry into a concerned tone of voice. But she couldn't help it, really, she just... didn't know how to explain it.

So rather than attempt to logic it into oblivion or wind up in a deeper sense of uncomfortable philosophizing, she headed for the Forbidden Forest to clear her head.

Yes, she knew it was Forbidden- after all, it said so in the name- but she found many things there, including uninterrupted, solitary quiet. The handy part of that name, 'Forbidden', often ensured she would be more or less left alone. After all, who in their right mind wanted to hang around in the Forbidden Forest?

The Centaurs were lovely company each time she entered. Which meant, lovingly, they were no company at all. They kept distances and allowed her to her thoughts, but she knew they were there, like mobile perimeters. The half-horse men had looked at the young Witch with a pleasant, amiable air, and for all the scary, dangerous things lurking it was nice to know she had friends.

Of course, she did not openly know that of the dangers within the forbidden forest, she wasn't the only human, and another far more ravenous one would be something no Centaur could defend her against.

It was ten minutes or so of walking in when she felt the strange sense that she was being followed. And this wasn't Centaur-followed, this was the sort of followed that seemed to be a recurring sound, the recurring step of feet on leaves and sticks, cracking beneath weight. Off-rhythm, she knew she was not hearing her own steps.

She paused and kept a hand tightened around her wand. The Centaurs didn't fancy getting so close, and she never knew when they were around. She could call to mind a dozen other creatures, but before they could crawl, stomp, or step into her head, she saw the shadow of a small, dark, lithe creature slip between trees. It was muscular to a certain extent, built sure and sleek, and in its brief appearance she couldn't gather whether it was a fox or a jackal of some sort. It moved with a languid pace, all the same light enough on its feet to crunch a bit of underbrush and disappear from her sight.

She warily turned her eyes back to the path she was walking, resting her and back in the pockets of her jeans. There was an abundance of discomfort weighing in on her shoulders, and each time she closed her eyes, an overly brilliant mind and a photographic memory recollected haunted things she did not wish to see. _Colin Creevey dead. He had been annoying when they first met him, obsessively clinging to that camera to flash photographs of Harry. But that memory would never be something she would associate with him again. Just what he looked like when the life left his body. Just what he looked like dead. _

She shuddered away a chill far more than just the cold and stubbornly told herself that she had her own sense of control, and it was in bad form to allow her own mind to act so deviously of its own accord. But it spun and toyed the way it liked, overwrought with concepts and ideas, overwrought with feelings she did not want to house.

_Fred Weasley, dead. The way Ron and Molly looked at him as he laid there, quiet, somewhat charred, almost asleep. Fred who had laughed with his twin, cried with his twin, smiled and lived and come into this life with his twin. Ron's devastated tears and how there were no more jokes to be told. Nothing was funny. Fred, and how he would cease to be, and how he looked there, dead._

The sound played back again, that one out-of-synch step, that little beast she'd seen moments ago. She whipped around this time, flecked lightly in her own cold sweat, to find the animal closer.

It wasn't within touching distance. Nowhere around where she could feel it, but the small, creature was alert and attentive, ears up, stance solid, just a few feet away.

She had not seen it before, but she knew the animal was a canine, but of what family she could not guess. Its body implied wolf, leanly built and rigid. The mongrel's fur was a lustrous black, the sort that did not reflect the sun, no, but drank it in where it struggled through the thick trees, silently swallowing it into the ebony tufts. Its eyes were black as inkwells, the pupils invisible against the dark color of its irises. Its four legs spread out in a bend beneath it, and its tail, a bushy excuse for an appendage, gradually rose to bristle and stand.

The narrow muzzle pulled back and bore sharp teeth, the frontal ones nastily long, the fangs of a predator.

This behavior, apart from clearly placing the Gryfindor in a position that made her feel decidedly and uncomfortably terrifiedtroubled her in more ways than one. Wolves were fearful of humans. They shied and avoided, and they didn't enjoy any sort of contact with them. It was not in their natures to act out in hostility toward humans, so this snarling agitation meant something was certainly up.

She took a step back and swallowed hard, watching as a paw rose, gingerly pressed down into the forest floor. The beast's posture remained rigid, on-edge, its fur jolted up in shocked touches of fuzzy onyx. Its large ears swiveled and shifted, satellite-like, and they as well then joined the rest of the creature's physique, alert and erect.

_One day, I even told myself, one day I would fancy a stroll in the Forbidden Forest and that would be when I would find myself quite unlucky._ She had known the dangers, and willingly the muggle-born had resumed her little sojourns, anyway. _Bloody brilliant Hermione Granger survives the War but is found dead and mauled by a dog. _

She wondered if the same rules applied, her mind anxiously racing. Was it sudden movement that discomforted the animal, snappish, jerky shifts? With bears, one furiously slammed together pots, one chased them away with blaring volume. But volume would likely not terrify this animal. In fact, it would probably threaten, overstimulate.

And then the beast's body began to contort, slowly changing. It elongated and slid into a pair of legs that ended in high-heeled stiletto boots, a short, black skirt, a dark corset strung tightly together against very, very pale skin. The muzzle flattened easily into a face, one that had been pretty, stunning at a point in life, but it was thin and terribly deathly in its weathering. Her eyes were heavily lidded, like she took no bother to pay any attention at all, but when they set on the young Gryffindor they sparked hungrily like flint stricken in the dark. Her lips were ruby red like they'd forever been smeared with blood, and her hair was unruly and monstrously disheveled, a dulled mass of positively black coils with no rhyme or reasonable aesthetic. Those ghastly lips, those viciously misleading lips, they forced back into a smile so painfully splitting it seemed something from a Lewis Carroll nightmare.

"My, oh my, Muddy," she purred in a pleasant husk, her tones dark and tender, like tickling the lowest chord on an out of tune bass, "if you don't look good enough to eat."

A dark shudder ran through her at the impossibility of this moment, the memory of a dead Bellatrix Lestrange. But here she was in the flesh, quite a bit taller than Hermione Granger, and quite a bit less dead than she had remembered.

"What is wrong? You prattle on so ordinarily. Has something got your tongue?!"

So she ran.


	3. A White Blank Page

**I'm actually surprised at how natural this is beginning to feel to write. Maybe it's because I've got myself a plot by now, and introducing Bellatrix is kind of a huge relief. There was only so long I could let Hermione angst, right? Wrong. It only gets worse from here. Haha. Now toss in a psychotic former Death Eater and this is a recipe for disaster. I appreciate everyone following this so awfully. Thanks for letting me know this is actually pretty decent. I'm really enjoying the crap out of it. **

It hurt to think. It hurt to breathe. Bellatrix Lestrange was dead. She had seen it with her own eyes. Molly Weasley had killed her, she'd shattered into a million pieces, scattered to the wind. The silvery scar at her arm, the pearly touches of roughened tissue. She dropped a fleeting gaze to the scratched word there. _Mudblood. _The feel of such absolute weakness, submission, pinned between the maddened Death Eater's knees in a frozen fear.

When her mind did fly free, the thoughts went flying out at full speed, Pandora's box sending the lid off with such force that it broke and unhinged violently. Two trees before her, their proximity close, the potential for that to be a utilized chance for escape. _To run between them, to run sharply to the side, to hide, to evade, to stop, to look back, Stupefy, right to the torso! She seemed rather thin, like the wind might blow her over. To wait, to toss up a few sparks and hope the Centaurs find me... if, perhaps, people might be able to see. She can't have her wand, I still have it, and if she had someone else's why would she be stalking about as a dog? Why would she not use that first, after all? _

She couldn't lead the crazed woman back to Hogwarts. It was a vulnerable place, only even half-built, by this point, filled with students fat off victory and calm. No dementors to keep her paralyzed and lost, to take away that manic energy of hers. Bella had escaped with those ghastly things, without them she'd make quick work of a still unhealed situation. A _Cruciatus _curse was forbidden, and no one slung it like Bellatrix Lestrange did. She produced her wand quickly and went to turn, trying to prepare, trying to face down one of the greatest duelists in the world.

_Waitaminute. _

She did not have that minute to wait. The forest floor tripped her up and she pitched forward in a tumble, feeling for a grip, finding none. She slid across the ground amassed in wet, slippery leaves from the evening's rain. And when her eyes clenched shut the breath left her lips in erratic pushes of air, and the ones she inhaled were greedily sucked in only to fly forth with twice as much force. She cursed that she had not noticed the veiled roots the trees had taken, but her wand stayed tight in her grip and she finally managed to venture that brave look back. Bellatrix's footfalls had stopped, and in the distance she could see two four-hoofed figures carrying a shred of black between them, one that was biting and kicking and screaming as loud as her lungs would allow.

She didn't mean to, but Hermione wept. The feel of it was broken and fearful, the shock of it falling harshly on her shoulders. She could not suffer it. She could not live through it. She did not know who to pray to that the occurrence was some sort of lie, a false excuse for a memory or a vision, her overtaxed mind playing cruel tricks.

"Put me down, you filthy half-breeds, you've got no damn right hauling me around like some sack of potatoes! You stupid, dirty creatures!" but the shrill voice rang sincere, unmistakable. A child's pitch, displeased with its situation, missing the toys that had once been in its hands. Hermione reached up to quickly rub the tears from her eyes, to hope it did not look like she had been sobbing only seconds ago.

The centaurs carrying the rather scraggly, deeply matted, hollow excuse for a Death Eater were massive beasts, both with serious, bearded faces and dark eyes. One snapped at her to hold her tongue, and instead she opted for a blood-curdling howl, planting a heel so viciously in the horse-man's side that he flinched and whinnied loudly, almost losing his grip.

"Mudblood! Tell these stinking pasture animals to release me!"

Hermione couldn't tell anyone a bloody thing. Not as she got back to her bearings, shimmying herself to her knees to stare in disbelief. It sounded like her, looked like her- same horrid claws for nails, same eyes like the bottom of an ocean floor, frigid, unlivable, black. Same heinous outfit, exposing a terribly plunging neckline in plain and indecent view. She would be lucky if she could breathe for the next few moments, and finally she shifted back to reality. Her hands were shaking, but she pocketed them quickly, and even in her torrential fury, her quivering frustration, Bellatrix Lestrange let out a grin so sickening it turned Hermione's stomach.

"Hermione Granger, it would seem that Bellatrix Lestrange has been living within the Forbidden Forest, within _our_ grounds without _our_ consent under the form of a wolf for some time. This wasn't brought to anyone's attention-"

"Of course it wasn't, you daft fucking _git! _It wasn't brought to anyone's attention because I was _hiding_, and you inferior halfbred mongrels were not meant to _find me!"_

"You died." Hermione's words came forth, her head shaking in slow disbelief. She found it difficult to answer, harder to manage out the syllables. They stuck in her throat, stabbed her to a wheeze each time she tried to cough them up, "We saw your body. Ron's mum killed you, and _we saw your body."_

"Oh, what a load of _bollocks! _I was slain by the fat Weasel mum?! Well, if that isn't humiliating I don't know what is." The raven-haired Witch was still cackling through her words and her gnarled teeth, the awful things bared like yellowed fangs. It was an affront, truthfully, to the rest of Bellatrix Lestrange's face. It could easily be gleaned how once she had been beautiful- alluring, even, somewhere within a hopeless starved face, caved cheekbones that could slice diamonds, in a place where she had deemed fit to care about a thing besides racial superiority and pay mind to her own vanity.

"How-"

"What's wrong, Mudblood? Little too far out of your goldfish-size brain to fathom the concept of _immortality?" _The last word was a forbidden whisper, the likes of which sent chills down the spines of all parties present. _No. It just couldn't be. The Philosopher's Stone had been destroyed, and there was no way on earth Bellatrix had scattered herself into Horcruxes, it was an impossibility. _Her palms felt clammy, cold, and she was searching her brain for a logical explanation that didn't lead to another Voldemort-like problem. _No, this is a typical Bellatrix appearance- __**typical, that is not an acceptable word for this conversation, there is no typical- **__and I cannot imagine nor understand when she went about the business of creating such things. But lord knows she's murdered enough..._

"Merlin's beard, Muddy brat, I've lost ten years standing here and I'm beginning to stink of horse manure."

"Hold- to her." Hermione tried to seem as though the sky wasn't cracking around her, the glass wasn't breaking in spidery pieces, branching out through small, hardly noticeable lines. But those spread and touched through the framework, and she was careful, oh so careful, not to fall into the hole in the world. "I have to tell Professor McGonagall and bring her back here. Something must be done."

Awkwardly, the brunette muggle-born realized she had to walk around the two hanging onto the dark Witch to head back in her necessitated direction. When she did, and she sidled about, by the tree trunk and vines that had tripped her up prior, a burst of softly warm air tickled along her ear. It was a gentle hiss, a caress, and she heard that low, throaty rumble of a tone murmur, "Crucio." She reflexively froze up, like the pain had hit every receptor in her body, but the Witch was restrained, and there was no wand in sight because... because Bellatrix's wand was still in her possession. Her teeth clenched together tight, and she tried very hard not to let it show on her face that she had flinched in a grand display. It had hurt, like a phantom pain, even when there was no pain at all.

Hermione Granger had goosebumps the whole way back to Hogwarts, but she made the trek, rubbing her arms. In spite of this, she never seemed quite capable of getting warm. The whole way there a raucous laughter filled her soul, screaming into the onset of true morning.

McGonagall, throughout her elder years and, to some degree, in the onset of her adulthood, had strictly followed the early to bed, early to rise motto. The others assisting in the Great Rebuilding of Hogwarts, as many had begun calling it, were not as keen on the first rays of sunlight as McGonagall was. In fact, they would have much preferred the comfortable embrace of more cushioned activities, like sleeping with the assistance of a pillow.

Hermione was much more flushed than usual, and, if she were to be so boldly honest, Minerva would say that it shocked her to see one of her brightest young students so out of sorts. And her suspicions confirmed on that when the brunette rushed over and stopped in front of her place at the front of the Hall, glancing up at her, panting through every breath.

"Professor... McGonagall... I have to... speak to you... in private... it's... urgent."

Green eyes filled with a genuine concern, and she stepped down from where she'd been going through the morning's tea and pastries, already abundantly aware that dodging trouble meant narrowly dodging other trouble was almost certainly in order. She would admit that she was surprised this lull had held as long as it did. Peace-time never seemed to last all too long, not these days.

She stepped out of the Great Hall, catching the eyes of a few quietly speaking students as she went. Rows of Ravenclaws were busily chatting, the Gryffindors were eating, the Hufflepuffs were loudest of all, and the Slytherins seemed engrossed in a debate amongst themselves. Not a speck of uniform was to be found just yet, and still, she supposed, it was everyone's conditioning to sit within their own houses. Instead, the room was an array of Wizard and muggle clothing alike, a combined effort of some sort of strange and comforting tandem. It brought a small, wrinkled smile to the Headmistress's lips.

The opportunity for that happiness died in immediate moments.

"I found-" Hermione glanced left and right warily, her lowering her tone to a hushed whisper hardly audible above the hustle and bustle happening not too many feet away, "-I found _someone_ in the Forbidden Forest, and I'm afraid we're- we're in a bit of trouble."

A bit of trouble? Each time the thought crossed her mind, she felt her skeleton prepare to crawl from her flesh. Her left arm felt uncomfortably bare, so she crossed it over her other one and against her chest, her throat dry as sandpaper. She would have to say the name soon, and she did not know if it would be easy as all that.

"Miss Granger, do tell me who this 'someone' is, if you know their identity." McGonagall was patient, but her eyebrows rose and took her spectacles with them, bringing the lenses up just slightly from her nose. The old tabby of a woman did not know just what was going on, but to see Hermione Granger so expressively off-put meant it was an undertaking that could spell disaster.

She leaned in and McGonagall leaned with her, inching a bit closer to listen as best as she could. Hermione said the name as though it was a hex, a jinx, a curse, as though speaking it too loudly would summon the woman, herself, "Bellatrix."

Minerva's complexion paled noticeably and she swallowed hard, wringing her hands a moment as though in thought. "Surely, you cannot mean..."

Hermione nodded, gingerly, and helplessly brown eyes glanced up, full, seemingly weakened. There was a vulnerability to Hermione Granger as of late that not many were very aware of, but to chance a look at her face, to monitor the way that gaze faltered and fell spoke volumes of her recent mental condition. Try as she might, she could not shake this feeling, these separate pieces of grief and doubt that she tried so hard to wipe away with the almighty cloth of logic that seemed reluctant to clear the stain. So she would try time and time again, and time and time again she would lie down to close her eyes and she would see what they looked like, the people she'd learned with, the people she'd laughed, talked with, and the way they'd looked in their final moments. It robbed her of warmth and sent her haunting the Castle grounds like some sort of specter, finding only relief in the ability to stay awake.

"Mr. Shacklebolt will be needed for this errand."

The way back to the Forbidden Forest was walked in a strained silence among the three. Hermione had taken to a chronic swallowing problem as though she couldn't drain her mouth, and McGonagall could not find it in her to grab at the thin, slippery straws of reassurance in light of this recent situation.

How had Bellatrix Lestrange survived...?

"The entire magical world will cry out for her life in payment for her crimes." For some reason, Hermione detected a grave hitch in Kingsley's tone, as though an unforeseen guilt had slithered its way into his words and swam deviously through. The great giant of a man moved with a grace that belonged to a man less than his size, but with shoulders so broad and a voice so thunderous, Hermione was sure he had been the right choice for this endeavor.

A very similar sort of discomfort was worming its way into Hermione's flesh, slowly tunneling in. She couldn't help it, nor the way her next words seemed reluctant to stay in her mouth, "If we commit executions just the same, we are no better than the Death Eaters. When one did not perform to Voldemort's standard, or failed his or her mission, they were severely punished and sometimes penalized under penalty of death. Surely, we could make an example of her, of the world we plan to usher in during this new period. We can show everyone that even the worst can be rehabilitated."

She would not admit it, but the stroll back over to the Forbidden Forest had played hellish ping pong with her thoughts. The strength of the fear she felt for the dead Dark Lord's first lieutenant was paralyzing, but niggling morality and ever-present possibility refused to let up. If they could change Bellatrix Lestrange, if they could truly make her into a citizen worthy of keeping a life waiting to be lived, then would it alter her, perhaps, inside and out? Would it let her integrate successfully? These thoughts troubled Hermione with all the volume of a swarm of bees. They buzzed, incessant, in her ears until she gave the topic proper treatment. It was that god_damned_ logic of hers, and the way it generally dropped the scale, a stone in comparison to the pebble of her own personal experience.

"To 'integrate' is a very bold suggestion to make, Miss Granger." McGonagall's voice was as uneven as a man walking on a ledge miles above the ground, his footing almost ready to give way. Yes, she knew it sounded insane, she knew it sounded riotous- but no one went crazy like Bellatrix Lestrange did without a purpose, without a fanatical reasoning for the way she'd been driven to it. And it was in Hermione's nature to try to think the best of people or, if not of _people_, than to try to make the best out of any situation. _And talk about a situation._

When the trio finally reached their destination, the two Centaurs still kept a fast hold on Bellatrix, looking terribly irate and quite a few yards past moderately annoyed. It might have been because her shrieking could be heard from miles away, and her vicious flailing had meant the two had some reasonable trouble holding onto her. Add in the fact that she wasn't exactly the weakest person to be subdued, and it left every person present in foul irritation.

"Merlin's beard," McGonagall's words fell beneath her breath, but immediately the wild-haired Lestrange fell limp in sudden stillness, and she greeted them with grin, baring her teeth like a predator. Even dangling there above the ground, her tall, rail-thin physique casting a darker shadow beneath the already darkened forest floor, she still managed to send a stab of slow fear through Hermione's heart. Even as the dress, the skirt that fit worse than anything, that had once clung to a slender figure but now dangled off of a corset, its only saving grace how tightly it was bound. Even starved, even practically sickly, Bellatrix Lestrange made Hermione Granger feel frozen. She tried to muster up a bit of courage, and finally, after reaching deep, feeling about, and coming up with a handful, she set her jaw in a rough line and pressed her lips together tightly, glaring into the Death Eater's dark eyes just barely visible through those messy tresses of deep obsidian.

"Slow as you are stupid, ay, Muddy? And you've brought _friends."_


	4. You Don't See Me

**I apologize for the lull in this. I must have written and re-written about a hundred and one times, and I'm doing the best I can to get this juuuuuust right. It's a little tricky, you see, because I'm trying my best to stick as close as I can to what I can see potentially happening. I've got a lot planned out after this, it should go much smoother, and I'm so excited for it! Thanks for the follows and reviews, they mean a whole ton to me!**

* * *

They looked like they weren't even people anymore.

Their faces were dirty. Some were injured, some limped, some grimaced. The Golden Trio watched them all as they were hauled where they were to be kept, and Hermione couldn't help but feel a deep sense of guilt. It wasn't in her nature to hate or begrudge. Yes, god knew she was passionate. She yelled, she snapped, but it was hard-pressed to stay beyond that moment.

"Bloody well serves 'em right." Ron muttered, turning back to his large stockpile of bacon and eggs.

Hermione had felt guiltier than she had a right to. The thought was there again, because yes, the war was over, but what of it now? They'd been victorious, they'd won, and now, in their victories they could live again in peaceful happiness.

But there were hundreds to Voldemort's cause who were imprisoned, now, and she couldn't help but feel like she wished it could all be balanced, even. It was a perfect world one would consider, the sort of world where good always triumphed, and evil always receded back into the dank holes from whence it had come.

But sometimes good won, and there was evil even there. She thought of Azkaban- Azkaban, and the way that its entire security system was designed to be ridiculous, inhumane, and downright maddening. It was there, perpetually, darkening the corners of her mind. _Was there no way to bring balance, to be fair and just, but still to live in a world that looked favorably upon all living creatures? Was everyone truly unsalvageable?_

She shook the ideas off like cobwebs and returned silently to her breakfast, wondering just how much injustice had to be committed before justice could weigh in heavily.

Perhaps she'd been thinking too much.

Not sleeping enough.

Perhaps she'd felt strange and lonely.

Perhaps she'd felt reminded each time she glanced at the inside of her left arm, how the lines of good and evil were divided.

* * *

_"Slow as you are stupid, ay, Muddy? And you've brought **friends.**"_

"It's impossible." McGonagall balked just a bit, even the eldest professor somewhat awestruck, "We were absolutely certain you had died."

"You sound disappointed, Minerva, or even, dare I say it, surprised?"

She cracked that wicked grin, then, and her deeply obsidian eyes danced with a malice that dove itself straight into a pit. It was all Hermione could do not to squirm beneath them, because they glanced past McGonagall, disapprovingly beyond Shacklebolt, straight to her. _Like she was trying as hard as she could to slice through Hermione Granger without ever touching her._

"Tell us how." Kingsley spoke, his voice an authoritative boom.

"Wouldn't you just love to know?" the Death Eater sing-songed, but for a moment, she was fooling no one. Beneath that attire she was skin and bones, and- as an unregistered Animagus she'd clearly been living in the forest off meager creatures, rats, things small enough for her to hunt. Hermione's brain was working overtime again, plotting out points with a relative ease. Bellatrix was no fool, never had been, and never would be. She wouldn't have shifted from animal at any point, because if a Centaur wasn't to find her, something worse, or something, perhaps, more informed toward the school's populace would. To change would be to blow her cover, and from the Gryffindor's calculated thoughts, the size of Bellatrix's animagus form did not make for a very proficient hunter. The creature seemed vicious enough, with the Black's brand of malice behind it, but on a predatory chain the wolf wasn't very large at all.

How curious, she thought, then, that the woman should take on the form of a wolf, a pack animal, when she'd always seemed much too rabid to function in groups.

"I haven't got all day. I was just about to lie down for a nice nap when little red riding hood came rudely intruding on my territory, and I should like to get back to it."

And Bellatrix was sure she was in the clear, scott free from any punishment she might have suffered. After all, these were the 'good guys', the so-called heroes of the tale. They were not bloody torturers or merciless sufferers. They did not blood-let, did not Cruciate, did not seek to divulge dirty secrets from her by way of pain. She would be alright. She had been deposited in rather fortunate hands.

It had been so long ago that Minerva McGonagall had hated her as a student, but she did not second-guess an ounce of her treatment. She was a Gryffindor, after all, a roaring lion if there ever was one. _Integrity and honor and honesty and justice and all that rubbish. _McGonagall would keep to being civil, Bellatrix could count on it.

_Cheeky, cheeky monkey._

She seemed like the struggling had stopped, and the bespectacled headmistress motioned gently to the other two in her company, wordlessly asking them to turn their backs. This was a deliberation that needed to be made. There were questions that needed answering.

What if the Dark Lord had made a plan?

What if Bellatrix Lestrange had made her own damned Horcruxes?

It certainly wasn't too far off-base to presume she'd desire the resurrection of the only-shortly-fallen Voldemort.

"The only logical choice would be to send her back to Azkaban."

_Captivity_, Hermione thought, _shutting her up in a cell for the rest of her life._

And she should have felt like it was the most natural decision in the world. But something sitting in the bottom of her gut told her it was not. Bellatrix Lestrange was capable of magnificent, albeit sometimes grievous, things. She was talented beyond measure, she was a brilliant duelist, she was smart, cunning, devious.

She was someone that very well could have been an asset with the right push.

"No." Hermione spoke up suddenly, and self-consciously glanced back like she had been too loud. The eldest Black sister was still swaying in the wind, still staring off into the distance like this entire situation was burdensome, her heavily lidded eyes blinking lazily. She dove back into the huddle, Kingsley's wise gaze settled patiently on her. And for that, she felt thankful. "No. There's a reason she isn't dead. It could be a very important reason. The possibilities, the capabilities- she's the worst, Professor, she's _awful. _But what could she be if she _wasn't?" _

"That is a hopeful and courageous undertaking of a statement." McGonagall seemed leery, but Kingsley's expression was calculating. They could almost see the thoughts as they circled his head.

"She has a point. She may know something big. She has a lot of secrets, after all, and I'll bet anything she's got a few of the Dark Lord's she's been keeping."

"Tick tock, tick tock!" Bellatrix called, "If you're done with all this secret society nonsense I'd like to get on with the remainder of my life!"

"We'll speak to the Ministry." Hermione didn't hesitate, her voice unwavering. And then the deal was sealed. "I staunchly believe this could be good."

* * *

"Do you plan to throw me in the dank dungeons, then, McGonagall?" no one replied. They remained silent, and watched her as she walked forward, head held high, treating the entire world like it belonged to her. "Tell me, is my Roddy dead?"

And no one had an idea what to say. How did anyone break the news of a dead husband? Unpredictable was not the word for Bellatrix Lestrange. The reaction could have been anywhere from furious to miserable to ecstasy to tantrum. It was almost impossible to gauge, so the three behind her fell back a bit, and she stopped in her tracks.

"I'll take that as a 'yes'. And Rabby? I won't be surprised if the answer is 'yes', too. Those two never rightly did a thing without each other."

Rodolphus Lestrange was as dead as any other carcass, and in a way borderline discomforting, Bellatrix was right. Rabastan was just as dead.

"I suppose it'll be Bellatrix Black, then. Pity. I was so fond of the Lestrange."

Her hands had been bound behind her back, and for everyone else this felt like a military march. For Bellatrix this was a cheerful romp, a giddy little stroll with a series of impoverished subjects.

"No one's answered my question!" she exclaimed, oozing false authority. "Where will my next stay be? The old Slytherin dormitories? _I remember those. _Fit for we serpents. So much nicer than you bloody Lions, all the arrogance, none of the talent. Tsk."

They finally led her inside, an when they did, the air rushed violently out of the room. The Great Hall was silent, every student straining to hear the sounds just outside. A loud, harsh cackle resounded, and it rebounded loudly off the cold stone. A hundred shifts and shuffles, a hundred heads turning.

"Bloody hell." Ron was the first to speak, and he reached up to rub his eyes, dig his knuckles in deep to dispel the vision. It was not a dream, it was a nightmare. "Is that Bellatrix Leatrange?"

Harry nodded, his mouth set into a thin, worried line, his eyebrows knitted tight. The cogs in his head were turning but produced no correct reaction. It seemed he was not the only one in the room with that problem.

"Kiddies!" she shouted brightly, and shot a look into the Hall as she strode by, "Kiddies! I've returned!"

Neville's blood ran cold. Every breath in the room was held, a collective gasp, very deep, felt like the thrum of a pulse.

"'Mione?" was the redhead's second inquisition.

But the brunette did not look inside.

* * *

"Oh, you're going to _negotiate _with me?!"

The room was large enough, the walls barren, done up in hideously striped wallpaper. No portraits to speak of. Nothing but two very large, ancient, claw-footed couches and a single high-backed chair before what seemed to be a massive fireplace.

"Yes." Kingsley was to the point, at the very least, and Bellatrix arched an eyebrow not-so-subtly.

"Hmmmmmmmm, now what could you want out of _me?" _

All teeth and pyre-bright eyes, the captive dropped lazily across the couch, stretching like a cat. Her wrists and hands were still wound behind her, but this didn't seem to stop her from being the most positively limber, lax human being on the face of the earth.

"_We can't have a plan," Hermione had murmured quickly to the other two, "she's clever. If we smell of the slightest premeditation she will know. And if she suspects, she'll shut down. -I just assume we should handle her like a very devious serial killer."_

"Cooperation." he said slowly, and for a moment he shot a look toward the other two, desperate for approval. As no one butted in, it must have been acceptable.

"You can start off by releasing my hands. Unless you're into that sorta thing, of course. In which case this all seems like a rather troublesome way to meet a simplistic conclusion." she sat up on her knees and McGonagall waved her wand at the accepting nod. The Lestrange flexed her fingers, sighing relief, and cracked her knuckles without making a full fist. Needless to say, it was intimidating. "Ooh, you _are_ serious."

"We want to offer you freedom." Hermione shot immediately. All eyebrows rose, and the muggle-born flushed a rosy pink, shocked by even her own suggestion.

"Bet freedom's got a different definition for you, Muddy. Freedom inside four walls, freedom in a cage, freedom from death."

"Real freedom." McGonagall's teeth ground together. It was a bitter pill to swallow, telling this beast she could be set loose in the world. She just kept remembering that arrogant, wild-haired little girl Bellatrix had been. She hexed the underclassmen and she laughed so everyone could hear, and she got excellent grades and excelled in all her classes and was the envy of everyone who had not been on the unfortunate end of her _Stupefy _spells.

"Hmmmmmm_mmmm..." _ she purred thoughtfully, and tucked her legs beneath her, twirling a strand of dirty, limp, black hair around her long finger. The longer she dragged out the word, the lower her tone got, and the lower her tone got, the wider her grin became, as though competing with the sound. "And what is the price?"

"No killing." McGonagall began.

"No Cruciating." Kingsley added.

"No hurting." Hermione finished, feeling much more confident in the sound of this.

"This is all very delectable, if those truly are my only stipulations. But you're all missing my point. What do you want from _me?"_

Her grin had disappeared and she was staring around the room with a wary expression, trying with a harsh extremity to read all three of the others. It was a hunter's stare, the dissecting gaze of an animal made of instinct over rationale. It smelled wrong, to her, this supposed hospitality, overly friendly.

"Nothing but those things we just asked of you." Hermione filled in the silence after a moment or two, trying to keep her voice even. If exams had been this difficult, she would have failed each and everyone.

"Of course you won't be allowed total solitude. You'll need a chaperone, someone who-"

"I will vouch." She didn't know how quick she'd said the words, and they burned in her throat. Hermione was willing to throw herself into this headfirst. McGonagall had given her a stern glance, but she swallowed hard and returned it with a decisive nod. This had been her idea, her suggestion, and she was well sticking to it.

"Touching, Muddy," Bellatrix's smirk had returned, and Hermione imagined the things she would have done, had she been the one with the power in this room. She'd be on her feet, touching the brunette lightly, with a grip that would slowly escalate to a more commanding clutch. She would take her by the wrist and whisper in her ear, though when she looked over Bellatrix was still sprawled on the sofa, her tone low, "What, have I gotten under your skin so far I've lived beneath it? Stick your neck out a bit further, someone will cut off that pretty little head."

"Miss Granger is making an offer that could be your only one, _Bellatrix." _Hermione swore she had never heard McGonagall sound so truly venomous. It was not anger in her voice, but hatred, undiluted, the same way, she thought, a child often hated. Without boundaries or stoppage, just a startling purity.

"The girl's a bloody fool," dark eyes heavily closing, she rested her head back on a throw pillow and yawned lazily, elegant, her face slowly slipping into a cheeky, content grin. For a moment, one might even assume her dreaming, "But I never said I wouldn't accept the offer. After all, it's my crown jewels you're after, and I've got a few diamonds for you."

* * *

"Have you gone _bloody raving mad?!"_

Hermione was grateful they were outside, because inside Ron might have caused quite a spectacle. She understood why. Even she thought it sounded mad.

Kingsley Shacklebolt had authority. Enough authority that, with Scrimgeour's death and the Ministry in good and proper control, Shacklebolt was the acting Minister until it was decided whether or not he would hold the place permanently. Several owls with remaining Ministry officials, Bellatrix throat clears, and declarations of how bored she was later, and they'd come up with a plan.

It was one Hermione had agreed to helm, and every person present was apprehensive about it.

Bellatrix Lestrange could not be trusted at Hogwarts. If this was another of Voldemort's plans, there would be too many tools at her disposable. Students, a menagerie of magical items, professors, and wands, most importantly. An abundance of wands.

Just off the coast of England and between that border and Scotland's, there was a Wizarding isle. It had no name to speak of, but it was small, quaint, and had been acting as a safe haven for several years to Witches and Wizards who needed it. Unused and unmentioned unless necessary, the place was safe due to enchantments in place to fool Muggles and Wizards alike.

Hermione would willingly live there with Bellatrix Lestrange. She would share a roof, sit at a table, live life, with Bellatrix Lestrange. The more Kingsley put forth his idea the larger the knot in her stomach grew, until beneath the table they were sitting at she'd felt her knees touch together nervously, her posture askew. Her heart sank like a stone.

"I would check in constantly as would the Aurors."

"As would I." McGonagall interjected, and slid a distrusting glare toward the Death Eater. Who was disinterestedly picking bits of dried blood from beneath her nails.

They simply couldn't trust the woman in a crowded area, and more than that, they couldn't trust a crowded area with her. She had made too many enemies in her life, powerful ones. And now that she was 'cooperating' with Ministry plans? She would have made yet more enemies with former friends for that.

She reminded herself that she singlehandedly might have been preventing the start of another war, and Bellatrix's insane giggle sounded in her ears when she said, "I'll do it."

"And just like that you _agreed?!" _Ron hollered, and the muggle-born did not know whether to feel slightly ashamed or terribly adamant that this was the right decision. Both were considerations she thought about, but it was hard to ascertain the right one.

"Hermione, this is an _awful _idea."

"I _know _it is!" her patience snapped. And she wanted to tell them she couldn't explain why she had her hand in this, why she was tossing her chips in this pot, but it felt right. It felt like something smart, something dire. It felt much bigger than her. "But without this possibility, it could get much worse. If I don't do it- if they put her back in Azkaban and she has something- something planned?"

"Then we bloody deal with it, we don't _move in _with the murderer!"

"We don't have another choice. Your mum killed her, Ron, we _saw _her kill Bellatrix and now, she's back, she's here, she's _very much not dead _and as the Dark Lord's most powerful lieutenant who knows what she could be capable of."

"And why should we have to find out?"

She looked toward Harry desperately, asking wordlessly for his compliance. She knew she wasn't going to get it, but she was trying, feeling adrift on a sea where she was surrounded by unforgiving dark clouds and sharks waiting to feast on her better intent. It had been a long time coming, and she knew she should have learned to get used to this, this unacceptable sense of disgust for what most- herself somewhat included- would see as a very poor idea.

"I can't, 'Mione." Ron had settled, almost apologetic, and he stubbornly stuffed his hands in the pockets of his trousers. His freckles stuck out vividly from his cheeks, and he was frowning, his disagreement writ large across his face. "You're making a completely stupid choice."

"Let's see how stupid it is when we find something out." the brunette spat stubbornly, and turned to storm back to the Castle before either boy could open their mouths.

It might have not been the best informed choice, nor the most well-thought out one, but in a way much larger than she could measure Hermione Granger was doing something awfully imperative. She was trying to change a life not her own, and to save several she might have been accountable for. Yes. It was a noble decision. It was a respectable deed. It was something that might ripple throughout Wizarding history, leaving a seismic impact.

So why did she feel like this was a mistake?


	5. I've Learned to Let Go

**I have planned this entire thing out to a degree so exhaustive that I have so many chapters neatly lined up in my head it is insane. And by god, I will keep posting them with extreme gusto! Thanks for being here, people.**

* * *

That night she did not sleep.

Granted, she had a lot of last-minute ends to tie up. For one, she had to pack, which was the most grueling experience of her life. Every article of clothing she placed into the enchanted bag was another resounding nail in her coffin. It was like she literally had begun sealing herself up from the inside, and she felt it, like a horrific overwhelm.

To boot, the weather had been grotesque. It was dank and rainy, an evening filled with the boom of thunder and the crackling shock of lightning. The girl's dormitory briefly shone with the force of each bolt, and she found herself alone in it that night. Unsurprised, it felt like everyone was angry with her for this decision.

Well, at least the utter solitude gave her time to think.

Which jerked her about in circles about her decision.

Which harshly forced her to rethink it a hundred times.

Which finally settled her into it was for the good of all Wizardkind, it was a personal choice, and it was a fear that had to be faced down.

She had wished she had Crookshanks, but after putting the charm on her parents that dissipated the memory of her, she couldn't bear the thought of the precious cat being hurt just because she wanted someone persistently on her side. So there he was, she knew, in Australia, the only little part of her family that still knew she was real. And probably the last soul on earth who was sure of that fact.

Logically, she thought, who slept before they were being sent off to live with a heinous madwoman?

While sturdy and stone, the wind outside roared through the castle's nooks. and once all her things had been thrown into a bag, Hermione laid in her bed and emptily stared at the ceiling. She did this for several more hours, allowing her stomach to tie up into complex knots, and right on until when the sky illuminated a dismal grey through the dim sun, which could not shine strong enough to break the overcast clouds.

When she finally got out of bed, her feet were heavier than they had ever been, and there was an obscene headache absolutely throbbing in her temples.

And now she had to face her self-imposed worst nightmare.

* * *

The halls were empty.

She knew this because there was no way McGonagall was going to let a single soul outside their designated dormitories while Bellatrix Lestrange was still out and about. They'd both be out of there before the day's goings-on would continue. She shuddered. Like being quarantined and put into a solitary confinement, like living in a world where there would be a solid bubble separating her and everyone else around her.

If this was to be life permanently from now on, she did not know if she could handle it.

The bag was as light as it always was, which felt, strangely, wrong. The lack of bustling, the lack of hustling, the terrible quiet. She felt like she just couldn't stand it, until finally she caught sight of a tall figure with severe, well-kept black hair standing just beside another with wild, not-so-well-kept black hair.

As usual, the not-so-well-kept one looked restless, typically impatient. It was like watching a beast fit in with a human, and she had to stop, take it in, still in moderate shock that this was reality.

Like she had automatically sensed Hermione's presence, the maddened Witch spun on a heel and broke out into a positively awful grin, so deceptively thrilled, so horribly excited. Her eyes were as black as a shark's, a cutting shade of ebony.

"Did you have a lovely sleep, Muddy?" She chirped, impossibly high, a cheery sing-song. It was awful- it felt very much like small spiders crawling up and down her spine- but she tried to force herself to remember this decision and how utterly necessary (sacrificial) it was. And even though orchestrating a nod felt like operating a puppet, she did so anyway. "No, you didn't. You look bloody _awful_."

"Lestrange, you would be wise not to insult the girl who stands between you and yet another life sentence."

"Pardon, I've gone and forgotten my manners." She made a great show of standing up perfectly straight, hands clasped innocently behind her back, and she nodded with a solemnly resonant expression, brows risen entirely. -Before she broke out into shrill, high-pitched giggles, half-bent, howling, _"I CAN'T! I CAN'T! You look __**horrid!" **_

"You are still perfectly allowed to back out, Miss Granger."

She almost took the suggestion. She almost tossed the thing away. She almost turned tail on the whole idea, told them to lock Bellatrix up to never see the light of day through anything but bars ever again.

But she was not one defeated so easily.

"Please, show us to our new destination."

* * *

"I don't know if I very well trust that."

Bellatrix was the first to speak up. She cast a skeptical glance toward the small glass filled with turquoise powder, the likes of which did not look anything like any Floo Powder she or Hermione had ever seen. Her defensive stance remained taut, her arms crossed, her feet squarely touching together. Her usually lazy, relaxed self, so very open, was now closed off.

Learned something new about a person every day, didn't you? "I would say your particular concern isn't one I look upon favorably." McGonagall said, always evenly, always flatly, and she saw Bellatrix just barely snap irritably, but her mouth clamped quickly shut.

It came as a soft shock to Hermione, but she could have sworn the woman was trying to reign herself in so as not to blow her own chances. The very premise of the Death Eater, the woman who had obsessively thrown herself into every danger for her former Master, looking out for her own interests felt- wrong. Like watching a beloved childhood character take off their own head to reveal a man in a suit beneath, a human wearing a false guise.

"This Floo Powder is designated for your destination, and is the only way to reach it through the Network. You'll be hard-pressed to find it by broom, and while it is not impossible to Apparate to, the only ones who can are those who have been there before. You'll be safely stashed away in a little corner of the world."

Bellatrix contained a snort, her previous humor gone. As if her attitudes changed on a dime, she'd become moody, sneering, unpleasantly irate, "Safely. That's a very heavy word."

"Miss Granger, Mr. Shacklebolt is still attending to some business, so we're delayed. But if there's anyone you'd like to see before you go, Miss Lestrange will be in my care until you return."

Hermione couldn't help it. She'd bridged the gap and briefly hugged McGonagall, and for that moment, the bespectacled woman gave her a minute, honest squeeze in return. It had all been there, in that little touch, that reminder that she accepted and understood, that though she disagreed with Hermione's decision, she had recognized it as one she had made. It was the first shred of relief Hermione had received all morning.

"Thank you, Professor, I will be right back." She tugged away quickly, and before she went off to leave the room she caught a brief glance of Bellatrix's expression, soured and annoyed, dark eyes rolling.

There were two boys who deserved a farewell.

* * *

She didn't have to go very far to find them.

The boys' Dormitories were still full of sleeping Gryffindors, but the two she'd been seeking hadn't been able to sleep, either. They had been up for what must have been ages, slouched over a game of Wizarding Chess that had more begun a routine way to waste time than a pastime.

She knew because, when she looked at the board, the pieces didn't have a mindful strategy at all.

"Hermione!" Harry was the first to greet her once she stepped through the Fat Lady's Portrait, but found she stood on the precipice for a long, pregnant moment.

How long was she going to have to suffer this lingering feel of self-imposed distance?

"We were nervous you'd already left."

"You're really going?"

She wasn't sure if he sounded hurt, confused, or both, but it broke her heart to see him there, his flaming red hair disheveled, his blue eyes absolutely reluctant to look her in the face.

"I have to." She said immediately, and wondered if she was justifying to herself or to them, these ones who had cared for her like family, who had loved her, who had been there for her each step of her way.

"I just don't understand why _you_ have to."

"Because-" she looked for the words, but she could not find them. And she could not find them because they were not there, because they did not, in fact, exist, because they did not have a logical wing or a care. "-Because I am the only one who will."

"There's good reason for that, then, isn't there?" He stood up, clad only in a thin t-shirt and a pair of mint-striped pajama pants. She wanted to wipe that look of indignation on his face and replace it with the reassurance she so craved. McGonagall's hug was wearing thin, but the passing power of the gesture clung to her. You must do what you must do, it had seemed to say, and it's up to you. "Lestrange doesn't deserve this chance, or an ounce of your time. She deserves to spend the rest of her life rotting in the back of Azkaban where she can pay for the terrible things she did. She's manipulating you. She's a complete nutter and she's using her to get what she wants because she knows how you work, 'mione. The nutty sorts always do. Most of them have got a second nature for making a game of everyone else."

Hermione could have canonized Harry right then.

"Technically, Ron, they're using _her_." For a moment, the redheaded boy seemed as if he would storm from the room. Like it would be a great and powerful _to hell with the lot of you_ and that would be that. "If the off chance exists that Voldemort could be coming back, or maybe something worse could be very close, it's safe to say Bellatrix will be at the center of it all. And this is a chance to keep her under our thumbs and controlled, as best she can be."

"Whose side are you on?" Ron huffed irritably, and flicked a piece off the board and onto the floor with a stubborn frown. "I still think this is a bloody bad idea."

"Bad ideas won us a war." Hermione reminded, but it didn't sway Ron's expression.

"Bad ideas almost got us killed."

She hugged Harry goodbye, and he said no matter how undisclosed the location was or top secret, he expected an Owl to be updated on what she was up to. She agreed, and told him he would have to hear what domestic survival with Bellatrix Lestrange would be like, anyhow. When she leaned forward to kiss Ron her lips caught his cheek, and his words weren't kind, but tense, tight, like he was subtly angry with her. Like every well-wish and word of care was latent with resentment.

Reality set in. Before she left, she took Harry's turn and shifted a piece, winning him a victory over Ron, and leaving her with a sense that she would sorely miss normalcy.

* * *

"I always took you for too uptight to be anything but punctual, Muddy."

She raised an eyebrow toward Bellatrix, refusing to feel ruffled, and realized that her placid expression- or lack thereof- forced Bellatrix to look bored and tired.

The fireplace in the portrait-less room glowed a soft orange, and when she reentered the eldest Black sister was splayed out just as she had been the night before, her every inch seeming much like a starved dog waiting to be brought dinner. No, dogs were safe, dogs had masters. This dog's master was dead and that had turned it feral. This was a wolf playing in the costume of a dog, dressed in the trappings of what had been obedient, but was now unpredictably wild.

Kingsley Shacklebolt sat beside the fire with his big hands loosely clutching the armrests of his nobly high-backed chair.

"Wherever you go, she is to go, too. Any ill behavior, any wandering a significant distance, any suspicious goings-on, any hostility, signs of any of these things and she's back to Azkaban. There's a supply of galleons that will be given to you both by the Aurors, who will check in regularly. Professor McGonagall will visit weekly. Any supplies and food for the week you'll desire is a ten minute walk down the road- that Miss Lestrange is required to accompany you on as well. For correspondence sake we're giving you an Owl, should there be anyone you'd like to write."

The creature hooting quietly from the cage was a barn owl, its face white and heart-shaped, the rest of its feathers a muddy brown, save for a few scarce spots where some tips were lighter. The brunette was relieved to find the bird seemed very tame, if in a sudden situation like this it was not screaming in confusion. That would be a welcome change from the hell on earth this felt like.

"Final chance, Muddy," this time Bellatrix was the one to interject, but never once did she look at Hermione. She just twirled a lock of her dirty black hair around an awfully long finger, releasing it, pouting when it did not catch the shape like she had wanted it to. "Is that unfailing stupidity of yours still holding up?"

"Luckily for you, yes." She snapped, nodded. She would accept this fate.

The firelight deceived her, but she caught the ghost of respect, perhaps impressed disbelief, winking briefly in those coal-black eyes. When she truly paid attention, she knew it had only been a self-satisfying trick of the light.

* * *

McGonagall and Shacklebolt gave them the grand tour. That was to say, they showed them about the house to allow a feel for the rooms, and the tour itself was grand, but the home was not as superfluous as such a word. Bellatrix hung just a few paces back constantly, scowling, cackling here and there when she came across something. The place had two bedrooms, a shared bathroom, a study, a kitchen, a mutual sitting area, a garden, and a rather vast screen porch.

It overlooked a treacherous looking dive over a series of very treacherous looking cliffs. However, the water beneath was the purest, clearest water Hermione had ever seen. The waves foamed and broke at the rocks so far below, and Bellatrix muttered nastily about how the stench of saltwater stung her delicate nose and insisted they go inside before she choose to personally get acquainted with the cliff face. Hermione thought about what a tragedy that would have been but didn't express that belief aloud. Unlike the dark Witch, Hermione had some level of polite decency. Instead, the Muggle-born remarked dismissively, "The world is your house arrest."

The Owl, who Hermione had chosen to name Icarus, because she had loved the story and because she needed something to call him, hooted pleasantly from his new place atop the coffee table in the sitting area. He seemed content with it- unusually content for a brand new bird put in a brand new situation, but it was best not to look a gift horse in the mouth. She was already wound up enough about the fact that Bellatrix's temperamental nature had not yet reared its ugly head.

Once her two Professors left, she paused after closing the door, looking around with a marginal feeling of setting-in surprise. She only got to experience that quiet for a brief second when it was interrupted by the click of stilettos on the kitchen floor and a deep, breezy voice immediately began giving a long series of commands.

"Both the bedrooms upstairs belong to me. If you incur my- _insanity_, it is your own fault. If you touch my things, what befalls you will be your fault. All ill occurrences within the boundaries of this house? Your fault. I, you will find, am very much a creature of my environment. And what I mean by that is any awful mood I will suffer from this moment on will be your fault."

She stared blankly, back pressed tightly against the front door. What had she thought she'd find out of this? Did she figure Bellatrix would be civil, good-natured, anything other than a frighteningly insane sociopath? No, but she watched as the woman crossed the floor, calmly stacking armfuls of books across the empty shelves with a painfully slow pace.

In other words, it was clear as day that doing things the 'Muggle' way was altogether horrendous for the Death Eater.

"You may sleep on the sofa down here, which is saying a lot by way of my handsome generosity. When I was a girl, we did not allow pets on the furniture. I should really be putting you on the floor like the Mud-pup that you are, but you'll find, if I'm- not so inclined toward anger, I am a rather giving Master-"

"W-Wait a minute, here." the brunette cleared her throat, her expression guarded, but it wanted, frankly, to be furious. "You mean to tell me-"

_SLAM_!

She had no say in it, not as Bellatrix's fist collided loudly with the wall just beside her, and she leaned into the Muggle-born casually, seeming as though she had just languidly danced from where she'd just been. It was strange, the eerie way which the eldest Black sister seemed to fit herself easily inches from the other- never touching, but enough to allow that suffocating feel of claustrophobic entrapment, enough to make it obvious that, in spite of her mangy, thin appearance, Wand-less, sufficiently less than the other, Bellatrix Lestrange was still the one in charge.

Hermione could have squiggled from beneath her. She could have scrambled away and slipped by, could have escaped, but she didn't. No. She stayed there, trapped beneath the shadow of the woman who had been a sufficiently terrifying fixture in their lives since they were children.

"You were saying?" She growled in that awfully deepening voice, ducking in until Hermione's nose was mere inches from hers, until-

_-she was slightly fascinated- _

-until she realized that deep, deep, deep within those blackened eyes, she found that the irises were, in fact, the same color as the Witch's wand-wood- walnut, darkly sleek, the very same- but the pupils, themselves, were the black things. They shrunk within the drowning loss of color, and it left Hermione pale but transfixed, taken entirely with how she had never seen anyone with eyes so dark.

"I was saying that you aren't my Master, was what I was sa-saying."

She felt a rather forceful shove to her shoulder and then the contact disconnected, roughly dropping her to the ground when she rebounded against the door with some considerable rattling. Perhaps she had not expected the wiry brand of strength asserted forth, but the Death Eater turned her back and began gesturing flamboyantly with a hand as she spoke.

"If you want to get a point across, the key to it is not to stutter. How is anyone to take you seriously? -That hair, those clothes, that voice- you're the easiest little thing to walk all over. Perhaps you should have been a Hufflepuff. Then again, I never took the _where dwell the brave at heart_ all too seriously. Everyone's a simpering pup when faced with Bellatrix Lestrange."

But before Hermione could speak against the haughty Pure-Blood, her expression indignant, the bathroom door threw open, bounced against the wall, and slammed shut so harshly she swore the mirror within must have shattered.

This, she thought miserably, was life.


	6. Well Tell Me What You Got Away With

**Hey, everyone. If you're at all interested my tumblr is tickly-crucio-giggles and I frequently wind up posting excerpts over there because I have nothing to do at four AM like readers, and I like little bits of sneak peeks, and I like- well, things to do with writing. I also figure it would be prudent to explain as a reference for Bellatrix's Animagus form that it is an Ethiopian wolf (I'd put a link, but ff apparently doesn't let you do that) since I'm too damn specific about anything for my own good... it's just black. Which is not a color for that type of wolf in the first place, but creative license, dudes! Anyway, hope you're having fun over here!**

* * *

Admitting it was almost as difficult as admitting an exam failure.

Before his miserable stay at the Black's sizable home, Hermione had remembered Sirius Black to be a very handsome gentleman. There was a way about him, she thought, certain good looks that were both well-bred and casual at the same time. He was a timeless kind of good-looking, aristocratic, the stuff that Muggle movie stars were frequently made of.

The sitting room had become unbearably foggy. It looked, in fact, like the scene in a horror film where mist rolled ominously off the barely-skimmed surface of a lake. Only the carpet was not a lake, and the whole damned room was filled with steam that was narrowly pouring from the bottom of the washroom's door. Eventually, Hermione had thrown open a window to vent the issue and grumpily taken up her post at the sofa, buried in a book she was too annoyed to care about. The door finally opened, hitting her with a burst of rapidly hot air that made her wheeze sharply.

It was odd to think that Bellatrix, while gaunt and thin beyond measure, still pitifully bony, maintained an air of absolute superiority that spoke loudly of her upbringing. Her hair was pitch black, and it fell in unruly curls that cried out to be brushed, as they sprung wildly without rhyme or reason. Her eyes were just the same sort of ink, and her skin itself was painfully pale, like she would shatter at a lightest touch, like she had forgotten what the sun looked like. But she held those same good looks, the ones very specific to the House of Black, and she drifted past in her black dress like the universe was hers to call her very own.

It caught Hermione off-guard- not because Bellatrix was, admittedly, unusually pretty, but because the whole notion of it had her aghast and slightly teetering. There was Bellatrix Lestrange, doing normal, everyday things, like taking baths, like turning up the heat so agonizingly that the walls themselves misted. _Like a human being_. It was that overwhelm, again, like seeing something completely wrong.

"I thought I told you I don't much fancy pets on the furniture." She quipped casually, and paused with a hand poised at the banister. She was some kind of awful Gothic painting right then.

When she had been young and Hermione's parents had told her what a bright, brilliant little girl she was, they'd taken her to a museum she could not remember, someplace that she did not wholly recollect. But she had remembered seeing a number of William Blake paintings, and later that evening she would wake crying to a number of nightmares, accented by all the awful, twisted angles, all the precise tones. It was like he had painted things just to make them ugly, she thought, and like the ugly things were so real that they were awful, and she did not like it.

With her sharp, pronounced bones, her dark hair, her pale skin, Bellatrix Lestrange resonated faintly with Hermione Granger like another sharp, sobering Blake painting.

It was like an imitation of life that wasn't an imitation at all, like it was too real to even be reality.

"I thought I told you that you were not my Master."

The Death Eater tensed visibly, and Hermione figured the most horrifying thing about Bellatrix was that when she expected a psychotic outburst she did not receive it, but she assumed that once vague ghosts of normalcy began to haunt them the Black would lose her mind and find a way to burn the house down. It was only a matter of time before she threw a tantrum of hurricane proportions, and she would wait for it, taut as a bowstring. Only a matter of time.

"Your words are unwise, Mudblood." She was barefoot, carelessly dripping all over the nice, beige carpet, "You'll find I don't swallow backtalk all too well. It's not one of my specialties, tolerance-"

"Your interest is in staying out of Azkaban, isn't it?"

Those features darkened considerably, her lips turning down in an immediate scowl. She swore, from where she was sitting, Hermione could hear a low, threatening growl in the back of Bellatrix's throat, "Why is that any of your business, Muddy?"

She put the book face-down in her lap to a page she had not been reading, covered in words she had not been paying much attention to at all. Sitting up a bit taller, the brunette steepled her fingers beneath her chin and criss-crossed her legs beneath her, elbows on her thighs. _Because she had really and truly had just about enough._

"Because,_ Bellatrix,_ here I sit, wedged tightly or loosely depending on how you choose to act, between you and another life sentence, without a Dark Lord to support, without a rally behind your dead cause."

Her eyes had gone so wide that Hermione took her for innocent. They were the eyes of a child who had been told Santa Claus was not at all real, and Christmas morning was filled suddenly with stale gifts given by _parents. _Voldemort had been Bellatrix Lestrange's Santa, as perverse as that was (and as strangely and somehow amusingly as it brought to mind the image of the nose-less dead Dark Lord mushing on a sleigh of floating reindeer), and for the first time in a solid month that she'd spent as a howling canine, Hermione had almost openly spat in her face. She felt angry- so angry that she reached for the Wand carried usually in her sleeve and let out a frustrated snarl when it was not found.

Her nails, as horrifically long as they were, scraped along the top of the railing. It sounded like that would be a noise Hermione had to accustom herself to.

"I will _kill you!" _She snapped, and hastily stepped off the landing with the gracelessness of a woman who did not understand what it was to stand without an arch beneath. Nonetheless she swung around, grabbing tightly at the banister for the garish waste of a move.

Hermione had not been ready for the textbook that assaulted her with extraordinary force at the head, and she recoiled with a loud yell and scrambled (or tried to) as a pair of knees slammed the wind out of her when they thudded painfully against her torso. Bellatrix had landed on top of her hard enough to overturn the couch, almost destroy the coffee table, and send them both tumbling in a battle of limbs that the raven-haired Black easily won. For a half-starved physique, there was a wiry, tenacious brand of strength in her. _It's not the size of the dog in the fight, it's the size of the fight in the dog._

Her breath smelled like she imagined death did. Like the sour stench of awful torment, and it was hot, particularly maddening as Hermione was dragged up by the older woman's claws tightly fisted around her shirt.

"You will never prattle on so out of line again! You'll respect my arrangements, you'll understand your inferior, filthy, _rotting_ place in the caste system, and you'll _never speak ill of my Dark Lord so recklessly in my presence!"_

For all of two seconds Hermione was floored, but she jerked quickly up only to be forced down again, harder and harder, those knees impairing on her every ability to move. She let out a frustrated grunt and a hand raked viciously through her long, dark curls, yanking her head back so she could feel her throat exposed, so the insane Death Eater could size up her jugular like she would damn well eat it.

So she could see her breathing in ragged pants through her gritted teeth.

"Do you _understand me, Mudblood?!"_

Hermione's doe-brown eyes rolled to glance where she could see the tip of her nose, firmly staring down Bellatrix with every resilient sense of iron-nerve she could summon up in her body. It was almost a relief, if she were to sound insane, to sound honest. She did not have to wait for the storm. The storm had come to her.

"I can't hear you. All the blood's rushed to my eardrums in this position and it sounds too similar to your tone for me to distinguish."

"You little shit, I should tear you apart like the mouthy brat you are-"

"Then you can enjoy it!" Hermione yelled, because the claustrophobic feeling was setting in, and now she just wanted this woman off of her any way she could get it, "Spending another rest-of-your-life shut up in the dark!"

Those nails left faintly bloody lines as they harshly slapped across the brunette's face, and she recoiled as her chest was suddenly several pounds lighter, pressing a hand to where she'd been stricken. Bellatrix stood with her fists balled, her eyes pyre-bright, her teeth sucking so viciously at her lower lip that Hermione did not know if she was to cry, to scream, or to grace her with yet another unruly blow. Even her expressions were insanely unreadable, yet all the same, they seemed to be a hundred things when she wanted them to be. Her nostrils flared. _There was anger._ Her eyes widened. _There was disbelief._ Her awful teeth dented her lip. _There was outrage. _Her breath shuddered. _There was misery._

"I'll not _beg_ for it!" She shrieked, and deliberately kicked the coffee table so hard that there was a crack where her foot was concerned, but if it hurt, Hermione could never tell, "I won't, Muddy! You and Shacklebolt and McGonagall can send me back for all I bloody well _fucking_ care, but I will _not_ lie myself down and _whine_ to be kept free!"

She swiped the beads of scarlet from her flesh and rubbed them in, the fresh stinging a slight discomfort. She licked at a thumb, tasted copper, and then smeared it between that and her index finger as though much less fazed than she really was. "Beggars are a remorseful sort, or they have the decency to lie. You are a psychotic, narcissistic sociopath. It's difficult to take those traits and expect you to act 'decently' in any way."

"A Mudblood like you doesn't understand pride. You haven't got any. Not a Gryffindor, the ones who puff out their chests, who stomp about with their egotistical claims of courage. You must have been mis-sorted."

"I'm sure pride served you well in Azkaban. I'm sure pride served you well _when I found you hunting rats in the Forbidden Forest like you'd taken more animal than human."_

"You know nothing of survival, little girl," she hissed, because she had no Wand to hurt Hermione with, because she would not sully her pure, perfect magical aptitude with a Wand owned by a _Mudblood,_ "You know nothing of solitude."

As she turned to clamber angrily upstairs, she tucked her chin against her bony shoulder, peering with those crow-black eyes toward the mess she had caused, the rattled Mudblood she had left there.

Her voice was low, accusatory, and laced with complete disgust, "You know nothing of pride."

* * *

After the door upstairs had slammed securely shut, closed so tight it might have melded with the wall, Hermione went about repairing the damages. It felt like some revoltingly backwards loss of virginity now that the little altercation had occurred, and she wondered how many more she would suffer._ Oh no,_ she thought,_ I will not send you back to Azkaban so easily. I will not lose to you like you're so quick to expect. _She righted the couch and made sure the coffee table had been afflicted with no major damages, finally allowing herself the right to shake like a leaf. It was a reasonable toss-up between adrenaline and the natural brand of fear any crazy-person felt when they chose to exchange words with a murderous Death Eater capable of slaughtering them in their sleep.

It was then she engaged in her favorite pastime. Logic.

_If she wanted to kill you, she would have just done it. If she needed your Wand to do it, with the thing in your pocket, she would have just done it. If she wanted to strangle you, to destroy you, to decimate you, or to seriously maim you, she would have just done it. You may sleep with no worry of that. Bellatrix is impulsive, but her major downfall is her most predictable flaw: **she always goes for what she wants.**_

There was no getting between Bellatrix Lestrange and an object of her desire. If Hermione Granger was to die, she would have done it the moment she was taken over by the impulse. For someone who McGonagall and Dumbledore had said was 'cunning, clever, not entirely unlike yourself, Miss Granger', she was picking where the flaws were. Truth be told, she felt almost disappointed to have been finding herself so accustomed, so attuned to the former Slytherin.

Perhaps she had wanted there to be more buried beneath the surface, but it was feeling as superficial as a department store window during Christmastime.

Once the trembling wore off, she finally settled down on the sofa again, much too worked up to even consider dinner. Icarus tilted his head at her and let out an inquisitive _hoot_, so she opened the cage door and let him crawl out, flying over to seat beside her on the arm of the sofa. He liked Hermione, that much was obvious, but she missed Crookshanks, and she missed her parents, and she missed having a feline, in general. Regardless, she stroked his feathers softly and let him nip at her affectionately, wondering all the while if she'd wake up to being thrown off the cliff outside in the morning.

He hooted as she thought, so she took that answer as a _hopefully not_ and put him back inside his pretty little home.

She shuffled into the bathroom and touched at her face, repairing the minute damage with a tiny healing charm and that flick of her Wand. Shallow gouges, but she counted herself lucky that the raging nutter had not managed to slice her eyeball. _Typical._ Still wet towels haplessly tossed about, shower curtain around the claw-footed tub still halfway thrown open, puddles still everywhere. She was not so ecstatic about feeling like the House Elf , but she had little other choice. If she didn't clean these things up, she assumed no one would.

She heard footsteps behind her in the other room, and glanced past the open door to see the raven-haired woman closing a hand around the knob, throwing a backward look to be sure she wasn't heard. -Except she had been, and Hermione charged out of the bathroom with a look of absolute _I-am-not-putting-up-with-this_ written across her face.

"_Where_ do you think you're going?!"

She scowled again, deeply. It made Hermione think of when she'd been told that if she made one face all the time, her mouth would stay like that forever. "To sleep."

"..." That was literally all Hermione could say. Or, rather, all she could not say.

Evidently, her expression was enough to speak for her.

"I don't much feel like sleeping surrounded by four walls. To avoid the obvious hissy fit you are about to throw, I will state that I will be sleeping right here, directly out the front door. Should you choose to monitor me until they've come to haul me back to Azkaban by the ear." Strangely placid (and a touch shell-shocked), Hermione felt a small pang of unwilling sympathy. It was the same one that had reared its ugly head to cause this adventure in the first place. _How much do you hate captivity? _

"I'm not sending you to Azkaban."

Curiosity broke through in that moment. Bellatrix's posture changed from a predator to a human, tapping a long nail to her lips. "An unsurprising development, Muddy. You really are daft."

"You sound as though you'd like me to."

Another snarl, "You won't goad me into this nonsense with your Muggle practices of the mind. I said it before and I remain set in my statement: I will not beg for my freedom."

Hermione shrugged, crossing her arms as she let the words wander by. "You mean to tell me you have claimed two bedrooms and refuse to sleep in either?"

The Death Eater cracked a casual grin like she'd won a prize, "I don't have to justify my actions to you, simpleton."

It was then that Bellatrix Lestrange shifted forms, her pale flesh turning a deep onyx as it changed into dark, bristly fur. It hid that beneath the coat one could easily see the stark outline of the wolf's bones, that rib cage as it expanded calmly for breath. She did not look at Hermione for even a moment. She only padded outside, the skinny, jackal-looking beast, and soundlessly laid down upon the porch.

Somewhere in the distance Hermione swore she heard a wolf's chilling howl, and Bellatrix's ears swiveled straight up, but she did not crack open an eye.


	7. Passive Aggressive Bullshit

She did not know why she had expected her small show of kindness to be received with any less malice.

The sun was not even up when she was woken. It was awful, the way the couch rocked on its short legs, the way it suddenly tilted and then slammed back. Mostly because Bellatrix had roused Hermione from what felt like her ninth dream and she was unforgivingly unhappy with being the only one up.

"Muddy!"

She was startled, once she'd realized who was so viciously hell-bent on her existence.

"_MUDDY!"_

The couch rocked again, as it seemed she had not been quick enough to answer. So, instead, she found that, for the second time in a mere day and a half, the entire piece of furniture pitched over.

"_WHAT _IS YOUR _PROBLEM?!" _

She bounced, rolled off the cushion, and found the taller woman grinning broadly above her, eyebrows risen, that lustrously dark hair falling around her in great coiled tufts. It took a few moments to remember the situation she had gotten herself into, and even more moments to recognize the person that she was in it _with. _

"I have grown exceptionally weary of eating carcass and wildlife, and would very much like a large stack of pancakes."

She did not know whether to take the 'carcass' comment seriously, but the younger Witch noisily propped the couch back up- so hard it knocked Bellatrix in the shin- and scratched the pretty wood floor in a long, gaping scrape. The other's playful mood turned swiftly dark, but Hermione was much more wary of that and, above all things, she was much angrier.

"_Do I look like your personal housekeeper?!" _

"Look, either you can make breakfast, or you can starve, for all I care. If it were up to me, I could very well easily trot into the woods and find myself a lovely snack, or I could make one of you. Now if you came away from that War with some small modicum of sense in that Mudblood head of yours you _will_ make food or I will _force _you to."

Somehow, Hermione had the notion that fighting against Bellatrix frequently got her nowhere. The two were a horrible chemical reaction. Sometimes, when one substance was added to another, and it was volatile, the possible outcome was bad. However, when a volatile substance added with a volatile substance, the outcome was practically volcanic. So before she leveled the house with a considerable blast of Fiendfyre that she couldn't control because she was maddeningly enraged, she clenched her teeth and stomped over to the kitchen area with a look so sour that Ron would have likely joked she resembled Crookshanks.

* * *

In spite of her Wizarding blood, her extensive knowledge, and her overwhelming aptitude, there were some things Hermione still chose to and enjoyed doing the 'Muggle' way.

She'd been raised as such. Though her Mother and Father were often so busy, they both did their bests to make time for their Daughter. She remembered the scent of her Mother's home-cooked meals. The smell of breakfast before it hit the table, the aroma of spices marinating a roast, the sound of water as it boiled, perhaps, a little more than it needed to when her Mother neglected to remember it was there, chatting away on the phone. She liked the relaxing length of it, the amount of time it took to do certain things.

Bellatrix did not.

Bellatrix enjoyed the luxury of instant gratification. It was how she thrived, how she lived. Dementors were hell, but the true suffering of Azkaban was tedium. No contact or enjoyment, no way to cause herself any sense of amusement. The madness of it all had been being shut up in her mind twenty-four hours of the day, seven days a week. _Boredom was lethal._

"I could have starved to death fifteen times before you have even made a single egg!"

It had been exhausting. From the second she began mixing ingredients, Bellatrix's high-pitched, childish, grating voice cut into every activity she did. Crack the eggs, put them in the bowl. _Are you done yet? _Whisk everything together, make the batter. _Muddy, I haven't eaten properly in weeks, this is abusive!_ Pour the batter into a pan. _I've a very well developed nose, you know, and it doesn't smell you __**bloody well cooking anything! **_Heat the pan, this time with a spell before she took out her frustration on the disagreeable Witch laying across the couch. _If I were waiting to eat decent food for this length of time, I would expect it to be world-class! Waiting this long for your subpar cooking, however, is unacceptable! _

"By god, then cook it yourself!"

She physically had to set down the spatula, fully conscious of how she was about to hurl it. Bellatrix was in the other room, by that point, her arms crossed at the top of the couch, her chin resting atop them. Watching Bellatrix Lestrange wasn't like experiencing a person, but a series of ever-changing masks, each one more extreme than the last. The one she was wearing right then was a sort of dull apathy that seemed to embody everything about the _word_ 'apathy'. If she did not care, then people in the States knew about it, and people all the way back in London did, too.

It crossed her mind that Harry had said to her, once, that Andromeda, the littlest Black sister who was no longer a Black sister anymore, could be easily mistaken for Bellatrix. It had been odd, he had said, and disquieting, but Andromeda had been kind and it was hard to associate the raven-haired master of torture with the word 'kind', even if it was a misstep.

"I'm a _Black._ We don't _cook._ It is _deplorable_ enough that this filthy rat's nest of a household hasn't even got a House Elf."

"No. _No_ House Elves."

"That sounded like you telling me what to do again, Mudblood."

She rolled her eyes and turned her back, counting backwards from ten. Mostly because she had literally _felt _her blood pressure skyrocket.

"Muddy," the tone was conversational. Suddenly, it felt like someone was standing behind her and pushing pins into her spine, one by one, slowly but surely. She didn't want to turn around for fear that through some inhuman silence the woman had snuck up on her and was standing directly behind. When she cast a glance over her shoulder, Bellatrix was still at the couch, busily picking her long nails with sturdy disinterest, "Has anything of remote interest or peculiarity piqued your dulled instincts at all?"

"Apart from the expected calibrating to live with a jackal? No. Not that I know of."

"Hm." Was all Bellatrix said before falling silent.

"Hm?" Hermione pushed, flipped a pancake.

_"Hm." _She reiterated stubbornly, and refused to budge from there.

"Look, I don't like you any more than you like me-"

"Now that's awful, Muddy. You've gone and hurt my feelings. I like you, just as much as anyone likes their slightly handicapped pet."

_"However, I think _that it would be beneficial to us both if we could just dialogue like civilized human beings." The brunette continued, her teeth gritted. _She would not lose her temper. _

"That is impossible. For one, I am a daughter of the noble and most ancient house of Black, and while I have long ago left my sense of human civility behind, you are a Mudblood. This means it is literally _impossible _to communicate on my level. Your suggestion is absurd."

"Nazi Germany has almost literally nothing on you."

She turned over another pancake and set it aside, then, grateful that she had not burnt it. She imagined that, if she had, she would never hear the end of it. That tedium had shifted to curiosity, the sort that made those eyes wide, black, narrowly childish, "What Muggle nonsense are you on about?"

"Just the idea of racial genocide. Not necessarily breakfast-table conversation."

"Well, there's a familiar subject." Brushed (or at least moderately tamed), Bellatrix's absurdly explosive curls shifted about her shoulders when she walked, bouncing slightly. At the temples and in lightly vivacious, scattered iron strands, she'd gone just slightly grey, and it was a brightly distinguished, unavoidable color that easily melded into the black. She could never imagine Bellatrix dyeing that hair. That would imply she felt some degree of shame for even the smallest part of herself. And Hermione was still surprised she, Bellatrix, and Bellatrix's ego could live in the same house. "Do you regularly take such a massive time-span to prepare a meal? I'd rather just slink off and find myself a lovely deer to hunt."

"A wolf of your size could not take down a deer."

There was that glare again. Quiet, dangerous, "And yet you seemed very frightened of my fangs, little one, long before you even knew it was me wearing the wolf's pelt."

"Well I wasn't aware that- forget it. _Forget it." _

She was adapting, little by little. Sometimes it was best to just let things go, because she was irritable and damnable Bellatrix was an annoying beast. It was an exercise in staying calm, but she was still taking time to master it. If she wanted to, Bellatrix Lestrange could try the patience of every saint in every religious text she had ever studied. It was gruesome.

When she got back to the table after a brief wander over to pour a glass of milk, Bellatrix had literally taken the entire stack of eight pancakes and began slaughtering them with her knife. As in, had they been humans they would have been dissected and hemorrhaging. The syrup was entirely neglected. Fluffy, buttery chunks were ripped mercilessly apart, and while she was angry that her food had been pilfered, she was amazed at the hostility with which one person could obliterate breakfast.

When the awful spectacle had completed Hermione was still hungry, and Bellatrix seemed casually satisfied.

"Reasonable, I suppose." Remarked Bellatrix breezily, and she carelessly tossed the plate, missing the sink and shattering it into a hundred little shards.

Rather than let out the scream she was so dying to release, the young Gryffindor clutched her hands together and squeezed, letting the high-pitched sound die inside her throat.

* * *

There was no way to win directly against Bellatrix.

It was impossible.

So one had to outsmart rather than succeed.

So she effectively enchanted the legs of the couch, adding an unimaginable amount of gravity. She proceeded to do this with every bit of furniture in the house she possibly could when the mangy Wolf went to 'bed' that night, and the front door clicked shut. It was much too chilly to leave it open, and here and there she heard the placid sound of the woman's tail sweeping back and forth against the floor, thumping or shifting, reassured that the mad Witch wasn't running off into the distance to cause further chaos.

She solidified every breakable thing in the house. She did her best to make all the china harshly indestructible. If she could not ultimately succeed, then by god, she would make a formidable opponent.

Once she was satisfied with every inch of the living room- she stopped. She stopped, because slowly, she heard a sound that seemed almost familiar. It was loud, loud enough to travel far, but when she went to the window to glance outside there was nothing but bright moonlight and the soft call of the ocean. And the waves never ceased, because Bellatrix had spent the day griping about how she could not tolerate the sound.

But there it was again! She turned her face to where it had come from and slowly opened the window, leaning outward to strain herself a just little more. _HoOOoooOoOoowl! _It called out, deep into the thick of the trees that surrounded their cozy home.

She opened the front door, then, in quite a rush, and she found Bellatrix still lounging, but this time the posture of her tail was different. It stood on end, the prickling bristles of her fur quite visible in the soft white glow, though she herself was still hunkered down in as though she'd been woken from a sleep. No sound emanated from her throat, but those soullessly black eyes flicked visibly up, and no magic Hermione had ever felt could possibly measure up to the way she was silenced with just that look. In that faint illumination, Hermione saw then that small tufts of fur near the beast's ears were whitish-grey against the black.

She finally got her speech back.

"Come _inside_. I don't know _what that is." _

It was then the scraggly creature snapped up and reared back, lashing out with those snarling, dripping fangs of hers. They were enough to catch and shred at the arm of the sweater Hermione had been wearing, tearing the fabric and gashing skin with a penetrating graze. She let go and stumbled back against the doorframe, the look on her face an incredulous frustration.

The bark that tore free from the Wolf's throat was a low, guttural sound, so deep, so dark it was too powerful to belong to the scrawny creature. Stumbling and startled, much too far out of her element, she half-tumbled back inside. The howls had since silenced, and the Wolf's tongue lolled out to run casually across the bloodied tips of those vicious fangs.

"You are _mad." _Hermione breathed, clutching the palm of her hand against where it stung when the air hit, a fresh burst of pain, "What the hell is _going on?" _

Bellatrix Lestrange did not make another hostile movement. That sinewy body made a full, singular turn and laid back down on the porch with a dull thud, those massive ears tilting downward, those empty eyes closing. Hermione's shuddering, frantic breaths did nothing to stir her.

The woods howled again.

_And she slept._


	8. Something Beautiful, a Contradiction

**Also, because we're nuts (I like to refer to it as 'eccentric'), my beta and I started a silly tumblr just for this. Texts-From-Bellatrix-Black would be it, if you feel like a good laugh. I'm having so, so, so much fun with this. Thanks for sticking around, cool cats!**

* * *

"You can_not_ keep doing this."

The next morning, Hermione stood across the room as Bellatrix sat at the kitchen table, an eyebrow popped so high, a scowl set on her face. There was that mood, again. "I swore I heard the words 'you cannot' come out of your mouth again, Muddy."

"I am _very_ serious. You attacked me!"

A snarky grin crossed Bellatrix's features, mixed casually with something that Hermione felt was awful, uncomfortable, and perhaps, in that particularly psychotic, Bellatrixian way, gently seductive. It was that arrogant look on her face, those heavily-lidded eyes, and she propped her chin against her palm, tossing back a visible handful of black curls. "I'm an animal, you know."

"Yes. And I'd like to remind you that this is yet another time you've broken Kingsley's conditions, and it has only been _three days! _It's on my good graces you aren't back in a tiny, dark cell, but you're unwilling to cooperate and I'm growing steadily weary of your impulsive tendency to act out!"

"Hm." Was all Bellatrix said, yet again, and tried to lean back against the chair, to prop her deathly heels against the table.

And Hermione remembered, at that moment, the _Gravitas _charm she had outfitted the entire decor with.

Unfortunately for her, Bellatrix did not know.

The back of the chair gave way with a great sound, a loud _SNAP! _as wood splintered and flew every which way, and with the least grace Hermione had ever seen Bellatrix Lestrange tumbled backward and landed in a heap of black skirt and long, pale limbs. To be honest, the moment froze so terribly in time that Hermione couldn't react if she wanted to. She could only stand there, hands over her mouth, brown eyes slowly getting wider by the minute.

"_Mudblood!" _the eldest Black spat, gripped the edge of the table to heave back to her feet. She was shaking, stark-white with rage, her nails deeply scratching the wood as they gouged in. She was virtually immune to every physical stimulus by that point. _She had been humiliated. _"You did that on _purpose!"_

"Sort of." Hermione whispered meekly, and she backed up against the counter, hands braced there as though she would fall off the edge of the world.

That was when she felt Bellatrix's hands clap sharply atop hers, digging viciously into her fingers, clutching them for painfully dear life. This was because the slightly taller Witch pressed against her forcefully and leaned, their noses mere inches from one another. Those eyes were such a clear, glossy ink, it was like looking into a mirror in the dark, seeing the faint shadow of her own silhouette, outlined.

"I have killed greater Witches for things like that." She growled, pushed harder, until the counter dug harshly into Hermione's back, and she felt like if she leaned any further her spine would snap in two. That presence bristled every hair along her arms, every inch of her screaming to push back, but she remembered the helpless way she had tried before, and somehow, agitating Bellatrix only made things worse. Fighting was a direct imposition on her dominance, and there was no doubt in the Black's mind, she was the alpha-female. So Hermione centered her feelings, her fear, her very self, and she stayed quiet.

Except it seemed that, too, made Bellatrix angry.

It was something like watching a blind animal survey its prey. Bellatrix's head cocked, her nostrils flared, her narrowly pupil-less eyes searched Hermione's entire self as though she could understand with her eyes and think with her brain later.

"I bit you because you are stupid. _Because. You. Are. Stupid." _She shivered suddenly when the other tightly squeezed again, and her knuckles cracked, an intentional pressure applied. "Wolves we only hear at the full moon, Muddy, are _were_-ones. We have a _stray_ problem, and you _are stupid. _Stupid people- _stupid Mudbloods-_ they go searching gallantly through forests for the sources of problems. And I am not sure if you are completely aware, but your survival ties directly into _my_ freedom."

"Well-" she found her voice finally as the grip alleviated just a bit, enough that she wasn't _in pain _anymore, just discomfort, "-like I said, communication works a touch better than making me assume you're just insane and dying to decide I'm Little Red Riding Hood."

And then something happened that Hermione Granger had not been prepared for. She wanted to face down Voldemort a million times. She wanted to remember that moment, crushed beneath Bellatrix's inhumanly solid weight, terrified. She wanted to go through the awkward teasing she had suffered as a child again, the comments about her teeth, her hair. She wanted to do _anything _besides be right there.

Bellatrix giggled darkly and forced down on her hands again. Even if she wanted to squiggle away, she couldn't. She was helpless, and the other pressed against her just a little more forcefully, but somehow it was gentler than it had been before, like a small tease of a motion. She'd gone to angle her face so it was too near to Hermione's neck for comfort; a vampire lusting for the sweet release of blood. "Would you like that, you terrible, innocent thing? Would you _like _for me to be the big bad wolf? Your little Muggle fairytales, I know them. I've been in this world quite long enough. Shall I huff, and shall I puff, and shall I _blow _your house down?"

The Muggle-born Witch flushed a crimson that rushed to her cheeks, leaving the horrible blush on her face so bright it painted points there like a china doll. A long twist of dark hair fell against her skin and tickled. She could hear her heart rushing in her ears, her pulse screaming out loudly. _She thought she was frightened, but she didn't know. _

"Mm, there it is again. Wolf got your tongue."

The Death Eater clicked her teeth together in jest and then turned back enough that she could meet the girl's eyes, hunched over, fully satisfied with the stricken, mortified expression on Hermione's face. _Little dear doesn't know what to do. Poor, pathetic Muddy. _

"Don't worry. I wouldn't _eat _you. Not in the cannibalistic sense. I don't much enjoy human flesh terribly, and you're a Mudblood. You're poorly seasoned and likely stringy. The Forbidden Forest offered me more appetizing meals. And I might have said I left civility behind long ago, but I've standards to uphold." And just like that, the contact disengaged, leaving Hermione breathing in ragged, trembling, confused breaths, and Bellatrix in full, apathetic composure. She turned her back to head upstairs into the study, stopping before she did, "I enjoy freedom. I want you to know that, should I find that incident with the chair a repeat offense, I _will _allow the canine in me to feast on you. I said _I _had standards to uphold. Wolves are unpredictable beasts, and I cannot be held accountable for my behavior. -Not that I can as a Witch, either, but I am hoping I can drive this in enough that you get the point. _Do not humiliate me again, Mudblood."_

* * *

_Dear Harry,_

_Bellatrix is stark raving mad. I suppose this comes as no surprise, but seeing myself write it out makes more sense. She refuses to sleep indoors and she makes the least adorable mutt I have ever seen. She rather loves pancakes. She is of no use or help in any way besides testing my patience. Though she's tolerable once you come to terms with how touched in the head she is. I hope Hogwarts is looking better. I hope Ron isn't still cross with me. This isn't precisely a walk in the park, and I'd like to know you and he can understand my decision. It makes it a bit more bearable. Write back soon!_

_Love always,_

_Hermione Granger _

She had _wanted _to write:

_**Dear Harry,**_

_**Ron is being a selfish arsehole. Bellatrix is a nutter. She's completely off her rocker. I have no idea how I am going to survive this. I wish I hadn't gotten into this. She literally threatened to eat me. Swallow me up. Like a rabid dog. And she gets too close to me all the bloody time, like she's just aching to stand in my personal space. The woods are overrun with werewolves and Bellatrix is trying to protect us (I use this term loosely) by sleeping outside (like a crazy person) and snapping at me whenever I open the front door. So far I have been clawed, wrestled, and bitten. It has only been a few days. I cannot win an argument with her. She's Adolf bloody Hitler. I am tired of the couch. I want to sleep in the dormitory again. I am becoming paranoid. She is not breathing down my neck. I suppose, in a manner of speaking, she is not trapped in here with me, I am trapped in here with her. **_

_**Please tell McGonagall to come rescue me because I am second-guessing my martyrdom in favor of comfortable failure.**_

_**Hermione Granger**_

She handed the letter to Icarus and sent him on his way as he hooted and disappeared into the distance. The real one, of course, not the imagined one she'd written in her head. Not the full-on admittance that this really was turning out to be the biggest nightmare she had ever experienced.

And she dreaded it even worse when Bellatrix finally descended from the study, all her hair swept over one shoulder in a cascade of curls that looked so heavy Hermione wondered how she could still hold her head so high.

"Muddy," she began casually, and in the pit of her stomach Hermione began to experience a paranoia that threatened to bring her too intimately in contact with Bellatrix's own psychosis. Was this a good mood, a bad mood in disguise? Was this subtle disgust? Was this a ploy? _No wonder the Death Eater was so widely disliked. She was unnerving beyond reason. _"I'm quite hungry."

"Well, I'm not aware of how to remedy that. As the cupboards are empty, you ravaged all the pancake mix, and I cannot go into town without you in tow."

"Oh. I'll be in the woods, then."

"Wait! -You can't do that, either. You cannot go _anywhere _without me."

"Why?" There it was, the low purr she'd been expecting, the violent, casual growl, "Are you going to tattle, turtledove?"

"No. _But I don't trust you that much." _

"Then it seems we are at an impasse. _I _do not wish to accompany you into a public place, and _you _are reluctant to allow me to attain my dinner."

Though her first instinct told her to back up nervously, Hermione refused to listen. Last she had done that- she could remember that hot breath on her neck, that cruel smirk, the way her pulse jumped in every part of her body. No. Not again. "So it seems."

_"And I don't want to go." _

"We'll you've no choice."

"_What _did you-"

_"Stop." _Bellatrix blinked, her claws gripping around a kitchen chair, her knuckles impatiently protruding. To no one's surprise, she was angry. "I will concede to making food, if you will concede to going with me to get it. It is a fair trade. I already allot you enough freedom that I let you sleep outside with the door shut."

"Allot. As though _you _control _me. _As though-"

"There is my offer." The Muggle-born was unmoving, her voice authoritative, stern. "God knows how long we'll be trapped together. Like it or not, we have to compromise."

"If I only had my Wand..." Bellatrix murmured, and arched a brow delicately, "I would just _Imperio _you into listening. Or Cruciate. Whichever yielded quicker results."

"Thank you." Hermione sighed finally, and in a huff Bellatrix disappeared upstairs again, leaving her to wait for what would undoubtedly be about five hours.

* * *

Fortunately, it had only been one hour.

Her hair was piled atop her head in a messy explosion of ringlets when she'd returned from the isolation of one of the practically unused bedrooms. Bellatrix, had it not been for the absolute dental nightmare and the terrible scowl permanently affixed on that face, would have been really very pretty. When not going beyond mad, when not neglecting everything about herself, she had an aristocratic elegance that was borderline frightening in its intimidation factor. No wonder Draco had been such a prat. His entire family was bred in the fine art of self entitlement.

When she craned her neck to pause, to examine the brunette like some sort of proper lady out of an ancient film, there, a step above, Hermione caught sight of the Azkaban tattoo printed along her neck, and she had to look away with an uncomfortable grimace.

A hand reached against the younger girl's forearm as she passed by and it ghosted along her flesh, that expression unreadably neutral. "You understand what it is to be marked, Muddy."

She shuddered, but regardless, followed when Bellatrix impatiently tapped a foot at the door.

* * *

"So what of the nonsense between you and the Weasel?"

From the moment the woman headed into the sun, she could perhaps understand Bellatrix's reluctance for it (other than being a soul-sucking demon vampire, of course). Her skin was practically paper-transparent, and she had to restrain a small laugh at the thought that this meant Bellatrix burned like a lobster with too much exposure. _And that just made her far less scary than she'd been moments ago. _

"Why... do you ask?" Hermione couldn't help the wary tone she'd undertaken. After all, she had no reason to think otherwise. It wasn't as if, for even a moment, Bellatrix attempted anything else.

"If you're going to answer my question with a question, I rescind my prior inquiry."

"I just- it's really quite complicated."

"Good. I wouldn't be able to stomach the brat. If there's anything worse than even a Mudblood, it's a Weasley. Good blood, and none of the sense to keep it pure."

"Doesn't it get tiresome, perpetually judging everyone based on that one fact?"

Bellatrix paid her absolutely no mind. Her nostrils flared again, and she pinched the bridge of her nose like she felt an immense headache coming on, but did not cease her stride. It had become a game, constantly trying to assess the thoughts in the older woman's head. With such unreliability toward expressions, how else was she supposed to figure her out? _Oh god, there's a world out here and it's awfully bright and there are pretty, loud, terrible things, and things that smell nice and I hate them all __**where are the carcasses? **_Well, maybe not with quite such a graphic flair, but the Gryffindor had no reason to assume otherwise. She imagined that if you peeled back the layers of Bellatrix Lestrange, one would find unaccountable heaps of madness, the desire to commit yet more murder, a fondness for kicking puppies, questionable, black goo, and a rather large stone where her heart had, perhaps, _once_ been.

"No. It makes it particularly simple to decide how far people are beneath me."

The next few minutes were spent in silence. Here and there the eldest Black sister would drop a snarky comment about how she could not believe she was living on some fairytale fantasy island like some hidden mythical animal with a second-rate excuse for a Witch. Hermione ignored, considering on a constant level what Bellatrix had said to her earlier that morning. _We have a __**stray**__ problem. _Supposing in a very rational way that McGonagall had assured her the place was perfectly safe, she deduced with a level head that, likely, the werewolves they dealt with were probably just as protected as she and Bellatrix were.

_She really wanted to stop having thoughts that led to 'she and Bellatrix' as an all-encompassing concept._

"Werewolves are worse than you Mudbloods." Bellatrix started, once she'd noticed the way Hermione's eyes wandered as they went, "There isn't _anything_ worse than an animal who has the nerve to fancy itself superior when it's nothing but a mangy beast. Dogs were made to be subservient."

"According to you _everyone_ was made to be subservient."

"The noble and most ancient house of Black, Muddy. _Toujours Pur. _Not something I would expect you to understand."

_Always pure, _Hermione thought, and held back a strangled, sardonic chuckle about how damned untrue that was.


	9. Shame That I'm So Contrite

The town was everything about life on a whole that Bellatrix hated.

It was pleasant, lovely, small, quaint, chattery, and scenic. Tiny, magic-oriented shops lined the legitimately cobblestone street, a sight that made Hermione wonder if, perhaps, McGonagall had also chosen this place knowing her student would need a reprieve this pretty. In the distance she could see the outline of a few great hills and the thick of yet more wild wood, and as the sun shone off the emerald grass there it seemed so glossy it might glow.

"What an abundance of _simplicity!"_

The contradiction of Bellatrix's tone had so easily amazed, now that she was a true-to-life human being. That babyish height of a shrill sound, how closely it teetered on the edge of a cackle, thrust back to a lower purr just before it could. It made almost no sense, visually, putting together that voice with such an- (was she really thinking about this) _adult visage. _

Thanks to a God Hermione believed questioningly in, and whatever Bellatrix might have put her own faith in, no one had taken notice of her just yet.

She had been warned in advance that this place would be notified of Bellatrix's existence. The leak to the Wizarding World would be slow, she had discussed, a promise that 'should anything go wrong' there wouldn't be unnecessary damage done. The paranoid Black was constantly considering how 'should anything go wrong' meant she was to be taken out and quietly slaughtered, so she was relying on the good graces of the generally naive 'good guys' for this one. Blind trust and suspicion didn't go well together, and she tried to curb her paranoia.

This also meant that _she_ had to behave, which did nothing to put her in a sunnier mood, either.

"Oh, a _bookshop!" _Hermione exclaimed enthusiastically, and indeed it was.

An old bookshop, in fact, seemingly archaic. When she waltzed in, there was even a bell above the door that gave a bright, cheery tinkle. Bellatrix immediately fell back into a scowl, but it was somehow not as strongly detestable as most of them had been. Instead, she began taking titles off the shelves gradually, that discomfort still present in her sluggish motions. Hermione noted it silently, but chose (and almost did not dare) to say anything. She was _agonizingly _awkward with the standard method of doing things, but how long had she been without a Wand, now?

_How long, though, had she been human, now? _

The young Gryffindor caught herself staring with that thought fresh in her mind, an honest curiosity present. She wanted to ask the question with a burning sense of desire, of course, and the older Witch flitted disinterestedly behind her, peering with those raven's eyes over her shoulder and at the tome in Hermione's hands entitled _The Roots of Magical Roots: Magical Plants and Where to Find Them_. Herbology. _How dull. _

"Subtlety is not your strongest suit," the Black sister husked, paying attention to the way those oh-so-common, coffee-ground-brown eyes of Hermione's distractedly floated back to the shelf, "Go on, out with it. You're gaping like a corpse's death rattle."

_Did she always have to do that, say things like that?_

"How long were you- well, you know-"

The Death Eater- the _ex-_Death Eater, Hermione reminded herself- took a large, leather-bound book from where it was nestled and opened it, scanning the first page. She did this for a long, pregnant moment, making the Muggle-born stand there feeling more than a bit ashamed that she had not been able to out the entire question. She slammed the book shut loudly. Loudly enough that the bespectacled, elderly shopkeeper gave a great sound of surprise and looked over from the counter, already a dozen shades paler than parchment.

"How long was I living off the flesh of my less fortunate, late brethren and rats, howling at the moon, trotting about on all fours, that sort of thing?" The way she spoke crawled beneath Hermione's skin, how the greatest things and the smallest things fell indiscriminately into one category. How Bellatrix had a flair for the overdramatic and, yet, could oversimplify the Holocaust, if she had to- something that was not entirely off-base for her standard conversation.

So she nodded and refused to let it bother her, just glanced right into that pale, aristocratic face, "Yes. That was what I meant to ask. I wasn't sure how to go about it without offending you."

"There's no offense to it, Muddy. I am what I am. I did not previously frequent my Animagus form except when it became a necessity. Unlike my mangy, dead cousin I was not much for getting in touch with my wilder side in such a- needlessly obvious way. To be a beast and a creature dodging one's humanity is cowardly. I find it's much more refreshing without hiding. I can be quite... _carnal_ all on my own."

_Abort mission. _Hermione's brain had briefly shut down, booted itself back up quickly. She bit her tongue in a haste that left her between angry and embarrassed. The woman _hated_ Sirius- she had been the one who killed him, after all- but that did not mean Hermione shared the sentiment. _At all. _And the- generally loose freedom with which Bellatrix spoke was both unwelcome and terrifying. She thanked goodness for how thick all her hair grew, coiling over her reddening ears.

"This. That. These." Bellatrix had heaped a few texts atop the counter. _The Big Book of Nonverbal Spells; Kneazles, Unicorns, and Boggarts, Oh My!_, and, somewhere amidst that mass, a leather-bound book that looked old enough to be Bellatrix's literary mother.

It was frequently difficult to keep up with the older Black. Every single time she turned away, the woman was busily picking up this, doing that, flitting about like she could walk on clouds and leave them undisturbed. It was really beginning to _piss her off._

* * *

She had given the store clerk a heart attack.

Hermione did not understand why she expected such good behavior to continue on indefinite terms. She'd turned around with her back to the man, who could easily recognize her just by the mad cascade of dark curls all shoved atop her head. Her hands remained braced at the counter's edge, her eyes surveying every corner like a vulture searching for a carcass, and then she'd slammed her boot needlessly hard against it and sent a book flying to the floor.

The sound resonated through the shop, and the poor old Wizard was clutching his chest, staring with eyes magnified largely by his lenses. Hermione apologized over and over again, sheepish and ashamed, and when they wandered out Bellatrix broke into a peal of laughter.

"_No!" _Hermione growled loudly, nearly dropping the bag full of books, "Are you _kidding _me?! That poor man- That poor man had to be upwards of a century old and you _almost gave him a coronary!" _

"_I know! It was hilarious!"_

"You have to _stop_ drawing unnecessary attention to yourself!"

"Or what, Muddy?" Bellatrix flounced easily aside, spinning on a heel, and this time she could not stop it. She thudded right into the woman's chest and fell a step back with alarming speed as though Bellatrix Lestrange was fire and she had been _drastically _burned, "Or you'll hex me into appropriate behavior? We know you won't, oh no, no, _no. _You haven't the gall, and it isn't what you goodies _do,_ is it? You don't _hex." _

"If you don't start _behaving_ I might change my tune on such things!"

"Ooh," The Death Eater tossed her hair, pantomimed a little snarl and a bite, teeth clicking harshly together, _"Feisty _little Mudblood."

"Look, I've had quite enough of this, and frankly, it's getting very stale. These awful things you keep doing to surprise everyone. Even unpredictability becomes predictable once it contains a pattern because of the person's attitude. You're beginning to get very _boring." _

There was a subtle twinge of pain that shot up Hermione's arm as Bellatrix fell into step beside her, a very malicious excuse for a pinch. Up-close it was alarming how utterly sleep-deprived Bellatrix looked, like she, in truth, hadn't gotten a full night's worth in decades. _Blast it, sympathy, _the Gryffindor's innards growled, _stay out of this. You've no place here._

"You'd like to think that, wouldn't you? That I've become docile as a housepet. Maybe I'll surprise you, then," in a show of faux delight (well, faux on Hermione's end, genuine on Bellatrix's, she was almost sure), Bellatrix clamped her shoulder in a death vice and burrowed her nose enthusiastically into the brunette's curls, nearly squealing girlishly, "perhaps I'll just _devour_ your pretty jugular artery in your sleep. Perhaps I'll _tear you apart with my teeth." _

It took a bit of force to do it, but she shoved her off with a snarky, "Predictable."

Aghast and paling, the Death Eater's hands balled into fists, and the look on her face told Hermione to prepare for what would inevitably be a temper tantrum. But much to her surprise, just as the word had predicted that tempest- it did not come. Instead, she'd turned distractedly to look into a window with an expression so strangely relaxed that, to some degree, Hermione Granger felt she might never use the word 'predictable' on Bellatrix ever again.

The store seemed like all it sold was cats. The walls within were lined with mewling kennels, and in the window was a small pen set up, three particular kittens tumbling about. Two were steely blue, pawing enthusiastically at one another, and off to the side was a Siamese with fur such a pure whitish beige it was the color of sand. Its face was sharply pointed, sourly expressive, and its limbs were comically skinny, all seemingly set beneath a head ornamented by two massive black ears. The creature's thin, black tail swished back and forth, and its ice blue eyes remained set on its clearly unwanted playmates.

Bellatrix was calmly engrossed in the animal, who refused to look at her in any way.

"Do you... want that cat?" Hermione asked, which was clearly a mistake.

"And why should I tell you?" She remarked sardonically, disinterestedly peering still at the animal.

She wanted to sigh, to exhaustedly say _enough_, but it was of her realization that if she did not push at all nothing would get done. So perhaps a little goading was in order, "Because if you say 'yes' I will buy it for you."

"I don't recall having to ask your permission." That expression soured, all the playfulness of moments past suddenly gone. Yes, she realized she had been mistaken. None of this was predictable.

"Well, seeing as I happen to be the chaperone, the one holding the galleons, it would seem that my approval is _key."_

"Nothing is bloody _key_ until I say it is." She said briskly, but her attention was divided when a small cluster of obnoxiously loud laughs sounded just behind her.

There was a small cafe (one Hermione had, in fact, considered visiting for lunch) and scattered about was a small mass of tables. Around it were several young boys, all of which had glanced toward Bellatrix at one point or another. One particularly snarly little rodent was fully turned around, his hair slicked back in a large puff of black, a thin, dark mustache crawling across his upper lip. There was a cruel sort of mirth in his voice when he chortled, "Well, bugger me, it really _is _true."

Hermione swallowed hard and hoped this was not going where she thought it was.

"Oi, it is, Shane," Another boy chimed in, one who looked too young to be there and had a face like a small, unpleasant Pug, but not nearly as adorable, "It's Bellatrix Lestrange and her Muggle-born master. You think she's got a leash?"

"The temporary Minister'd come by my Mum's flat this morning and said they'd de-clawed her, in a lot more words," The black-haired boy, presumably Shane, took a long drink from his mug, pausing, "Perhaps they put a spell on her, made her take an Unbreakable Vow or something. Else I didn't figure a Muggle-born could control _her. _Must've sunk real low."

Bellatrix's teeth had gritted, and when Hermione looked over, an anxious expression on her face, those black eyes had clouded over, glazed and distant, almost completely detached.

The boy beside Shane was as red-headed as a Weasley, and his laugh had a nasal sort of gasp to it, "I'll bet she can't even take a hex anymore. Probably all bark and no bite without You-Know-Who to hide behind any longer."

The distant look in her eyes had disappeared, the fog lifting, and they were growing round and hopelessly wide, masquerading innocence within the depths of which laid an unspoken fury. Her breaths were shallowing out, and her hands were trembling, her jaw jumping like a frog leaping from lily pad to lily pad, like it couldn't even stay on its hinge any longer.

"Why not test that, shall we?" There was the sound of a chair crashing to the ground, the potential slosh of a spilling cup of coffee, and Shane had shouted, "_PETRIFICUS TOTALUS!"_

The way Bellatrix turned her madness on and off was something of a fascinating study. With a grace Hermione was quite sure not even quick-footed animals possessed, she swiped the wand from Hermione's lefthand pocket and turned in perfect position, like some sort of horrifying ballerina. _"Protego!"_

The spell harmlessly touched off the tip of the borrowed wand, and when the boy rose his again, trying to stammer out a curse to self-preserve in front of his gaggle of swine, she immediately shouted, _"EXPELLIARMUS!"_

The wand flew so far that it landed atop a roof and red-faced and trembling, Bellatrix snarled and snapped all the way to the fallen, once-brave child, gruffly snapping him up by the collar of his shirt. Hermione's wand pointed at his throat, and the former Death-Eater's mouth split into a cool grin, prodding so harshly at his flesh that she might have stabbed him instead of hexed him just to kill him. "Am I still a kitten, you filthy little _mongrel!? I should leave a bloody hole here for daring to besmirch me like that!"_

She traced the wand upward and pressed it against the corner of his mouth, leaning so far forward that he'd see himself in the blackened mirrors of her eyes, feel the soft reverberation of a giggle in her words as she spoke them, _"Flick flick, _off with your _mouth."_

"Bellatrix!"

Hermione was behind her, then, and thankfully had the presence of mind not to touch her, but the commanding tone of her voice made it more than clear that this was reality, and she needed to get back to it. It dissipated, like she was coming back to consciousness, and as though somewhere between confused and still thrumming with white-hot rage she looked over toward the brunette.

"Bellatrix. You have to give me my wand. You'll be in quite a bit of trouble if you don't." She spoke coolly, and much to her honest surprise, the woman tossed the wand carelessly away as though it was a dirtied napkin, dropping the kid like an absolute ton of bricks. He went down shaking and close to tears, knowing full well that was the closest to death he had ever brushed.

Regardless, that didn't seem to curb him, "Yeah, better listen to m-m-mistress."

"The thing hardly felt more capable than a twig, anyhow, Mudblood. I wouldn't want to hold onto it a moment longer."

With that, she shoved roughly by Hermione and started her way off, where she did not know nor care. Hermione didn't say or do a thing, but she dropped one last scathing glance toward the boy getting to his feet, and she knew she didn't have to. It was enough that he looked a pure fright and she indicated his thigh with a point before departing, "You seem to have dirtied your trousers."


	10. And I Don't Care Whether I Live or Die

Once they had acquired the necessary supplies, Bellatrix's mood solidly remained sour as week old milk, they both made their ways home. There was enough pasta to last them a considerable couple weeks, a few pleasantly chocolatey confectionaries (and maybe because she felt awful for Bellatrix's less snippy and more injured attitude), some ready-made baking treats, and a few mutually agreed upon bottles of Firewhiskey. Perhaps the sympathy had spoken a bit louder than she wanted it to.

"Alright, this is enough," Bellatrix had finally proclaimed, something that let Hermione exhale a grateful breath, "You'll need to stop this 'pity' nonsense. Out with it. Say what you'd like and be through."

"I'm proud of you." it was just coming out of her mouth. She had no control. "You had a Wand in your hand, tensions ran high. You were angry. You were _furious. _And you didn't Cruciate him. You could have _killed _him. My Wand obeyed you without a hitch. And yet that boy is still alive and, even more impressive, he is _unharmed."_

There it was again. A scowl, a dire down-turn of those pretty lips. When she seemed angry, Bellatrix was better suited to be a dour portrait hung on a mansion wall than a real person who could be witnessed in life itself.

"It's clear that you haven't been as observant as everyone seems to accredit you with. _Hermione Granger_, that's your name, isn't it? I've heard the talk. Don't think I haven't. When one is involved in a War, it's both sides that they learn. Even Dumbledore had called you it, that batty old codger. _The brightest Witch of your age. _A title, you'll be rather disappointed to find, you had inherited from me."

Disarmed, and a little wary, Hermione glanced her sidelong and faltered a few steps away, hardly noticeable, to put some distance between them. This endeavor had taught her the true meaning of being 'on her guard', and now every compliment felt like it was laced with arsenic. Any kind word was a poison-tipped arrow. They were back-handed, besides, and that put Hermione in a feeling of security. Once they became genuine, no, she would not fall into that trap.

But, even though her instincts told her to close up, she chose to remain open. She didn't choose to trust, but, most notably, she did not choose to _dis_trust.

So she asked it because she wanted to.

"You?"

It was simple, the one word, it spoke the whole question without needing anything else. Enclosed. Singular. Easy.

"Yes. Pity you're such a disappointment. I would have expected you to have known that. There was a spectacular lot in my time at Hogwarts, and I was likely the most important."

She rolled her eyes but had the presence of mind to turn away and obstruct the gesture from the elder woman's view. She didn't need the possibility of another blow-out.

"Does it bother you?"

Hermione Granger was caught sufficiently off-guard on that one, especially since she'd been so determined and focused. She'd let it happen, and as a result the questioning tone in the Death Eater's voice made her tense and flinch in confusion, a physical query as to _why_ she had seemed interested in anyone _besides herself._ It didn't make any damned sense.

"Does... what bother me?" Hermione asked slowly, taking up a piece of knowledge she'd gathered only hours ago. _Don't ask why she's asking the question. Ask that, and the doors lock, the shutters close, the whole house goes dark, and she'll not bother with you a moment longer. Appease, feed in, play interested, not suspicious. _

"The fact that your particularly honourably-begotten moniker is one you'd inherited from me. Does that little similarity discomfort you?"

She shrugged, a natural reaction, and she thought the honesty before she said it, because there was truth, and she didn't need to ruin everything. _I do not want to be like you. I am not like you. I am a kind, caring, compassionate person. I am a Gryffindor. I am nothing like you. I cannot torment two perfectly loving people with a little boy into madness. I cannot kill scores of innocents just for the supposed unclean nature of their blood. I cannot carve a despicable slur into the arm of a terrified young girl while looking her in the eyes, always in the eyes, dead in the eyes. I cannot blindly follow a man who thinks he is right solely for the personal justification of his cause._

The last one felt, somehow, wrong.

"No. You're a horror-show, but you're impressive. Perhaps it isn't all that bad. I can confidently say we're not alike, after all. I know myself well enough."

"And you know me well enough?"

"Excuse me?"

"And you know me well enough," Bellatrix repeated, that snotty smirk on her lips, that dangerous darkness glinting playfully in her eyes, "to say, confidently, I am not like _you." _

_No, _Hermione wanted to say, _and I don't know if I want to._

* * *

The next few days were strangely quiet and much calmer than expected. It was on the fifth day after the incident at the marketplace that Hermione Granger caught herself lounging normally on the sofa, stretched out normally on the cushions, engrossed normally in _Gulliver's Travels, _and she could not help but wonder if the fright of this was the typicality of it all or the fact that Bellatrix had become a standard part of her living situation. Not one that needed to be handled as carefully any longer, but honestly something that could be forgotten about as it was kept around. Like a box one had not unpacked for some time despite moving years ago, and yet it maintained its residence, being moved from room to room, but never emptied, just an irregular but regular part of life.

They'd had an honest-to-goodness discussion.

The irony had been crippling.

It was only two evenings prior when she'd had her nose in _The Complete Works of Edgar Allen Poe,_ a book that weighed three tons, but was worth that weight in gold, as far as she was concerned. And the more she read _The Raven_, the more she couldn't help attaching Bellatrix's face to this lost and forgotten Lenore he kept on about. Perhaps it was Poe's sullen, pitiful nature, perhaps it was the depressing, dark, blackened way the whole poem went, but she could imagine it.

That hopelessly black hair, those endlessly dark, abysmal eyes, all set on skin too pale, skin that stifled those intense features, skin that drank and hollowed them. She could see it like an illustration of this woman no reader had ever met, would ever know, and she wondered if Poe, himself, even had.

"_Take thine beak from out my heart and take thine form from off my door, quoth the Raven, 'nevermore!'" _

It had startled her so much that her pathetic, golden-brown eyes flicked up to meet Bellatrix's black ones. Too thin, a ghastly caricature of herself, and the way her dresses still hung sadly off her frame like she'd been wearing a suit of her former self that just wasn't her any longer. Such a shadowy creature, somehow so pathetic, but who noticed if they didn't look with an inquisitive mind?

"Pardon?" The Muggle-born offered, startled, and a touch embarrassed to have been caught staring absently into space with the book still settled in front of her eyes. It must have looked very much like she was trying to be tactfully covert, which did not bode very well with her, because she knew something about Bellatrix too easily: interest meant questioning, and the Dark Witch's questioning was just so uncomfortable.

"That Muggle nonsense of yours, the book you've been reading. I had no choice, of course, I'm half out of literature of my own so I had to dip into your stores. Overdramatic, if you ask me, uselessly macabre and grandiose."

She couldn't help but spit out half a laugh. It was choked on, but it came out nonetheless, and Hermione giggled, _"You _are going to call _anything else _overdramatic?!"

The eyebrow, the warning eyebrow, shot straight up, and she stepped over the back of the couch to settle onto the cushion across from Hermione, leaving a square's space between them. Her face had a very loud way of saying _what's that supposed to mean? _without yelling it physically, and that might have been the most frightening thing Hermione could possibly tell about her.

"You explode every time _anything_ happens, and you've got the gall to call _anyone else_ overdramatic?! Sometimes you become upset with the proper nouns I use!"

"And your point is...?"

"You're making my point _for me." _

The miniature argument had led to what might have been considered a riotous, borderline violent debate to the rest of the world and to Hermione and Bellatrix was a run-of-the-mill discussion. It was suitably hostile, but the underlying promise of possible slapping and/or punching was persistently present. At the very least it had ended with Hermione eventually getting Bellatrix to admit that _The Cask of Amontillado _was _passable_ and _Annabel Lee _made her want to retch violently. _"But we loved with a love that was more than love," she ground through clenched teeth, rolling her eyes, if humanly possible, over and over again throughout the sentence, "I and my Annabel Lee."_

There, in that moment, she made a small, surprised sound to herself, glanced around to be sure no one had witnessed the ridiculous noise, and settled comfortably back in her novel.

* * *

The night was cold.

Cold enough that it left little touches of frost at the edges of her inky fur, little, bristly icicles that tugged off and melted away when she was touched. There was comfort to this, Bellatrix found, a stubborn fact she would not admit to anyone. It was relief to slip into such a familiar skin, and the longer she'd been this skinny excuse for a canine the longer she had found it simpler to relate to.

The moon hung overhead, obscured just slightly by a thin veneer of grayish clouds.

It happened as regularly as any other evening. The sky darkened, the stars watched her, the frost-bitten breeze rolled in and felt horribly like curling up beside a reptile. There was a blanket discarded uselessly beside the door. Hermione had insisted upon it, but she didn't need it. She didn't need anything. So she merely ignored it.

The rain had started off slow at first, just the promise of a chilly sprinkle. There was a crash of thunder and a few soft drops, and then the smell of it was all around her, invading her snuffling canine nose. She regretted the scarce overhang on the spacious porch and the way it did nothing to stop the wet. A couple more sounds and she was up on her feet, padding to the edge of the three steps that led down to the path through the grass.

_Crinkle. Snap. Crinkle. _

"Pathetic, Lestrange."

She growled lower in the back of her throat, fur bristling sharply on end, and in spite of it she did not turn, did not change. No, she remained just as she was.

"Livin' with a Mudblood and sleepin' outside like a dog. Not even a wolf, _like a dog."_

There was another _BANG!, _like pots being forcefully slammed together, like the awful sound floated upwards and expanded outwards through the sky. A brief flash of illumination streaked through the world, and she found herself both angry and frustrated that it could become this grotesque this quickly.

In so many different forms.

"Get outta that fur, Bellatrix. Yer not foolin' anybody."

After a moment the obscured figure was met with that regal figure, the eldest Black seated protectively at the top step, her low voice whispering harshly, "I didn't assume I was, you _git. _And it's Black, not Lestrange."

"Not like it matters. All I see is a sad bag'uh bones sittin' in front of a Mudblood's house. How _did_ you survive, anyhow? Did you run, hide, tuck your cute, fuzzy little tail between your legs and slink off when the Potter boy started breathin' again?"

"Piss off."

"How did you do it, Bella? Really, I'd just love to know-"

A hand reached out in the dark, clapped her at the knee, and she lashed out with a smack. Those fingers retreated, gnarled and dirty, narrowly claws themselves. The deep voice chuckled.

"Never again," She spat calmly, her eyes narrowing to see better in the dark, "You've no business knowing anything about my survival, mongrel. Isn't there a tree you should be urinating on?"

"Big words for a woman cozying up to a delectable little Mudblood."

"A large insult for a man who three times a month loses the basic human luxury of opposable thumbs."

His teeth were sharp, but he never shook her, not a day in her life. They were rows of awful things, and they looked like needles clicking together. He finally emerged even partially, his darkly blue eyes almost as dark as her own black ones. He was grinning.

"At the very least no one's collared _me." _

"Get out." She was even, then, darkly serious, "Get out and don't force me to witness your repulsive face ever again, or so help me I'll take Azkaban gladly for the satisfaction of _murdering you and dismembering your revolting body into neatly parcel-sized pieces to send back to your pack."_

"You'll deeply regret insulting me."

She took a tentative glance backward toward the door, assuring herself that the Muddy hadn't heard her, and thanked whatever she could think to thank that she had not. Greyback would have gotten violent, and she would have been accused of some hasty, imaginary treason, and a whole mess would have resulted. And she just wasn't particularly in the mood for it.

"You would make a fierce right Werewolf. Think-"

"I would much rather drown myself."

He shook his head, and his formerly dark, now steel-grey hair stuck in damp strips to his pasty skin. It'd gotten long, she noted, long and filthy and disgusting, just like Fenrir had always been. His grin never left his mouth, and she had always thought there was no way it truly ever would. If she thought about it, and she would have gladly seen it off herself, he would go to his grave grinning.

"Unwise'uh you, Lestrange."

"Go attend someone more gullible than I. I hear the weeping babes from here, the nine-year-olds crying out for your particular brand of stolen, pedophiliac immortality."

He gave an almost uncontrollable snarl, clearly shoving down the urge to snap, and went no further when not even the solid shelf of her immovable shoulders quivered. No, she sat stock still, glancing down at the beast who had dared to speak to her with such willful disdain.

"You've made yourself an enemy. Not very smart. You don't have many friends right now."

_Hm_, she thought, considered his words a moment, but a lingering sensation in the back of her all-too-clever mind felt somehow like he was at least mildly wrong, _disappointing._

"And I don't want to make any with your kind. Now off with you."

When he turned to go, those frigidly blue eyes of his shot a look her way that was practically a glared _Avada Kedavra_. She didn't feed into it, and though it crawled up her spine, she did not rightly care. She wasn't frightened of him, and she never would be. Fear was for children, and when she'd been one, it had not been for her.

The thunder rumbled again and she shuddered, cold, and, by now, uncomfortably pelted with rainwater. Into the encompassing dark the clouds slowly hovered over the moon, and as it blacked out the world around her she muttered, "Bellatrix Black doesn't regret _anything."_


	11. Aint Changed But I Know I Ain't the Same

She stayed out there all night. She stayed until the rain subsided from its thundering sheets to dull patters. She stayed until it became sure and steady, until she could count the drops separately apart from one another. She stayed until the sky lit up, a dismal grey accented by stormy black rainclouds. She stayed until a chill sunk into her bones and burrowed there, until her dark hair hung in limp, straggly strips, soaking wet. She stayed until her eyelids got too heavy to watch any longer, and she slumped soundlessly against the banister and said to herself _a moment, only a moment, and then I shall resume my tenacious guard. _

When she woke there was a light touch of warmth against her skin and the crackling tingle of a fresh fire. The world filled in around her slow but sure, a filtering realization of actuality. The sky was a blustery grey and the clouds were a grotesque black, rolling lazily by against the sullen backdrop. She was still shivering slightly, but the cold had limited itself to seeping inside her.

"It is downright impractical for you to sleep outside in weather like this."

She crossed her bony arms over her chest, the ribbed contours of her sternum making starkly noticeable lines as if her rib cage was struggling to burst and be free of its captivity. Her eyes blinked sleepily and fluttered, then, trying to dispel the gathering dust when she realized the brunette was seated beside her and between them floated a small bundle of paper that was aflame, controlled but bright.

"Nothing is impractical," she husked slowly, clearing her throat like yelling cobwebs from the pit, "I choose not to sleep inside. It's absolutely none of your business."

"It is when a freak thunderstorm happens in the middle of the night."

She tapped at the hovering flame and it shuddered, briefly sputtering an ember, lightly singing her touch. She hummed her approval for a moment and then pushed her shoulders back, her arms, her whole body, briefly. It was stiff as a board, locked entirely up, but it was always relieving when she stretched each morning as of late and realized she had more room than a two by four cell to do it in.

"And why is this of any of your concern, hm?" She allowed for a small, sly glance, innocent, that disarming expression she never even had to practice, "Were you watching me sleep for quite long, Muddy?"

"Well, when I'd heard what sounded like a monsoon I was concerned you'd catch your death. I suppose I should have better remembered that you're a particularly talented escape artist, and that is your finest act."

Before anything could be said, a rather cross Hermione Granger, very tired of the defensive nature of Bellatrix's rude attitude, moved easily and pushed to her feet with the assistance of the top step. A still half-asleep Death Eater had no retort, and for the first time in a long time she was at a bottomless loss for words. She couldn't discuss how death had fled from her clutches. She needed that kept. It was her ace in the hole, after all.

* * *

She felt guilty.

God, she hated it. It gnawed at her nerve endings. It drove her insane, but she felt _guilty. _

There had been that stupid moment, that stupid moment when Bellatrix had been calm, quiet, and over what? Over a _cat. _Over a _cat. _Like someone with interests, with preferences, like someone who actually didn't want to hurt another living thing. And that brief flicker of a second, that moment of bubbling silence where Hermione knew the woman's ego had not been kicked in a long, long, _long_ time and that boy, that idiot boy had opened his mouth.

She knew she shouldn't have felt guilty. Her mind was, by this point, as absolutely warped as a petrified tree. It made little to no sense. She shouldn't have been worrying about the damaged arrogance of a psychotic murderer.

But each time she thought about that, she also thought about how Bellatrix had _not _been a psychotic murderer just then, and how the opportunity had presented itself every day for the time they'd been living together, and she had never taken advantage of the fact. And how Bellatrix went on not being a psychotic murderer every morning over tea, every afternoon through a civil book discussion with aggressive undertones but intellectual overtones, every night to the sound of the Wolf's tail brushing erratically and, yet, also calmly against the floorboards of their porch.

She shouldn't have felt that way, besides. Bellatrix deserved to have her ego kicked. She was arrogant, no-nonsense, with her nose permanently turned up and her eyes permanently narrowed in scrutiny. She was perpetually cocky and persistently overconfident. Rude, difficult, monstrous, snappish.

_Human, human with her nose almost pressed against the glass, human with the way she had almost quirked a smile when those little fluffy tufts of fur tumbled about, human with that small, distracted moment when no one must have seen but Hermione did, and noticed, inside that little vacuum-sealed feeling of a second._

"Ridiculous," she said, because since she'd limited her social contact to merely Bellatrix she'd gained a habit of talking to herself as though she was company, "Ridiculous. _Ridiculous. _I cannot believe myself."

She had never considered things like what had made Bellatrix Lestrange the way she was, but she could have put down a sufficient amount of money down on the bet that it might have been nothing at all. There was a natural state of being to the woman, truth be told, as though it wasn't insanity, it was just who she was. But a person had facets and parts. A person was an oiled machine of traits and qualities, and-

"Oh bollocks, I'm buying the cat."

* * *

When she stepped outside Bellatrix was still there, her hands clasped calmly in her lap, her eyes turned forward, staring placidly into the distance. The remnants of the storm just an evening before were still scattered at the horizon, leaving a smattering of grey clouds that broke into the almost-grey sky, and the wind whistled through the floorboards so uncomfortably delicately that she could hear it shriek in and out of the crevices and cracks.

"Where are you dragging me, then?" She asked, but sounded distinctly disinterested, and Hermione was caught a touch off-guard by the gloomy neutrality of her tone.

"I'll be perhaps an hour," she said. "You won't even notice I'm gone." she said.

She didn't want her out again. It was plain as day why, and to be honest, that fact irked Bellatrix far more than anything else, the more she thought on it. To think that they could treat her so insufferably, that little band of teenage boys. That one could have the _audacity _to say Hermione controlled _her_. It was mortifying to think that her reputation would sink to the collar the rest of the world had fastened around her neck. And the more she sat on the porch, the more she thought, and thought, and thought about it. Eventually, when she managed to stop stewing in it, she got up and went inside to leaf through a book at the kitchen table, _swearing_ she was not angry.

* * *

"You look lovely as always, Bellatrix."

She'd remained seated at the kitchen table when he chose to ignore that no one seemed to be home and instead carelessly crashed in. Now their door was badly destroyed, the hinges hadn't stopped creaking and it was letting a winter draft in. She was rigid and calm, but her lips twisted in a sneer. "Spare me the flattery, Greyback. Did our evening's conversation not sink in well enough?"

"I'm here because I felt the need to see the hovel they've put ye in. Look at you, little domestic."

She tensed. She had never liked Fenrir Greyback, not for all their years spent in each other's ranks, and now his incessant visitations were becoming annoying. He was reckless and malicious, violent in a way that spoke of undisciplined action. And he was kind of a pedophile, which made him even more intolerable.

"I'd suggest you turn around and return to that rug by the fireplace somewhere in England that you piss, eat, and sleep on, in that order."

"Still got your bite, I see, Bella. Least captivity hasn't taken that from you."

"It's not captivity, you mangy mutt. Unless you ever found yourself eager to go back to Azkaban. _That _is captivity. Why do you continuously plague me?"

"I'm only half here for you, this time." He picked up a small, quaint, ridiculous ceramic figurine atop the counter, toyed with it, then put it back down with a look of distaste. "I'm really here for that pretty Mudblood of yours. Had ta think about it a little, but the solution came to me clear as anything. Can't have you, then that bitch looking after you would make a fine prize."

She feigned disinterest, but in reality something inside her was screaming. _The Mudblood belonged to her. The Mudblood was her stupid little pet. _She was not this flea-bitten beast's property, and it both bothered and irritated her that Greyback could come into her territory and act like it was his. That was why they'd never gotten on well at all. Because his werewolf supremacy attitude overlapped their agenda, and even if the Dark Lord saw him as a formidable, useful ally, she had always retained a bad taste in her mouth where Greyback was concerned. He always thought he was _so much more _than she.

"What do you plan to do with her?" she asked coldly, but he caught the obsidian glimmer in her eyes.

"Why? You don't think she would make a very interesting addition to my collection?"

"I'd rather you keep your dirty paws off of her."

"Are we upset, Bellatrix? -Over a Mudblood? How unlike you."

She felt herself begin to sneer. Without a wand this was a virtually useless scenario. Her wandless capabilities existed, yes, more powerful than most, but against an admittedly experienced duelist with a wand in his possession? She didn't have an ounce of hope. She wished he'd been Scabior or some sniveling underling. She wished she could _have her wand back. _

"The Muddy is my property and the only thing between me and yet another Azkaban life sentence. I would rather not live with her contracting your- particular disease."

He sat down across from her, his bulky frame making the wooden chair creak loudly. It sounded like it was crying out in sudden pain, like the thing could not handle Greyback's size. He smirked widely, far too widely, and she saw his yellowed, filed teeth, the way they looked like an entire mouthful of razors in the agonizing daylight. "What are you going to do about it, Bella?"

Wrong question.

The table flew up with a sharp push so vicious it knocked him off the chair, and the Witch fell back to the counter, searching around in that brief moment for any sharp thing she could use to hurt him. She could have killed the entire Ministry for leaving her with a stupid little Mudblood as her only line of defense.

She was yanked after grabbing a pot, and there was a sudden explosion of pain across her face, all over her arm. Greyback's claws had sliced her in their scramble, and his other hand had intentionally swiped at her cheek. And this was an opportunity she took to slam him over the head with unimaginable force.

The hit was so intense, in fact, that she felt the thing's handle vibrate in her grip.

He stumbled forward and crashed to his knees, something that let her administer another home-run worthy hit to the head. "WHAT THE BLOODY FUCK IS YOUR HEAD MADE OF?!" She shouted, more to herself than anyone, even if her face was leaking scarlet and her arm was well splattered.

This didn't stop him from dizzily crying out, _"CRUCIO!" _

It struck her with an alarming sharpness, dropping her to the floor, the pot clattering from her grip as she growled and shuddered sharply. She clamped her teeth down tight, sealed her mouth shut.

She would not scream.

* * *

Giving in was surprisingly easier than arguing with herself.

The creature was just as she had imagined, perfect for the eldest Black- placid, content, particularly apathetic, a little haughty. She came with a pretty blue bow that rather delighted the Muggle-born and a smarmy look of discontent so strong it was almost human.

The feline did not make a single sound the entire way back, and the town's small gaggle of boys who had mocked the dark Witch not a day ago were silent when Hermione walked by. They just watched as she went and their conversation ceased. And they were smart for it.

Then there seemed to be a problem.

She knew Bellatrix was upset. It had been obvious from the moment she stepped out. But they seemed to have no front door. And hurt or not as her giant egos was, that was downright inexcusable. Hermione Granger had put up with a lot, and the final straw was about to be her reason to say a resounding and absolute _fuck it. _

"Bellatrix Black, you _have _to be-"

_"Get out of here, idiot!"_

Her eyes went wide at the scene unfurling before her. Fenrir Greyback was bleeding profusely from the head, and stumbling to his gigantic feet. Bellatrix was doubled on the floor, grunting and shivering in pain, but all the same clawing towards a bright red pot she had made macaroni in perhaps last night.

Hermione went for her wand with unimaginable speed and finally the cat yowled, shook, so drastically that it almost shattered the cage. She dropped it quickly and the thing streaked from its holding cell-

Right into Greyback's sizable hands.

"Pretty kitty." he slurred, and squeezed it, scooping it up to hold against him like a little captive. It yowled and squirmed, struggling.

"You put that cat down!"

Eventually Bellatrix was composed enough to grab the pot and stand with the help of the table's edge, her pretty face distorted with bloody fury. She was trying to come to grips with a number of things at once- like the way the Crucio was still flaring through her system, and how, yes, she now seemed to own a cat.

And then the cat proved its worth to the former Lestrange.

It raked its claws across Greyback's face viciously, twisted as he cried out, and wiggled out of his temporarily weakened grip as fast as its paws could carry.

"I remember telling you to _leave!" _she shouted, but her teeth chattered against one another and she could only think inexhaustibly on how Hermione Granger would have made a terrible werewolf.

"I do _not _remember inviting _him _for tea!"

"Greyback never did have very good manners- give me your wand."

"Nonsense, I-"

"_SECTUMSEMPRA!"_

She'd had the good sense to move before the spell hit, but it glanced across the brunette's arm, slicing a great gash and causing her to cry out in an attempt to stifle what would have been a rather loud scream. The hand spasmed and the wand fell from her grip, immediately caught by a sweeping, composed Bellatrix. She grabbed the thing and extended an arm quickly, ducking and shifting easily back to a nearly instinctual dueling position._ "STUPEFY!" _

The bigger they were, the harder they fell, and Fenrir Greyback was one of the biggest. The chair collapsed beneath him, the jet of red light receded, and all the pieces splintered as he fell into them.

"What the hell happened here!?" Hermione snapped, concerned, and worried, and angry, and everything all at once.

Bellatrix looked, as unfortunately as it was, as though she had been through a wood chipper. It made Hermione feel almost guilty. She seemed so absolutely exhausted, so terribly weakened, that she could not imagine how this exchange had gone. It was then that she could take it in, notice it.

"Your- Your face."

"Call _someone _and stop concerning yourself with _my face." _Bellatrix snapped sharply. She wasn't about to act like she needed the help, even if she was in mortal suffering.

And, frankly, she was becoming weary of feeling like the only intellectual in this makeshift duo.


	12. Waiting Anxiety

By the time the Aurors had come and gone it was minutes of Hermione explaining the situation, and Bellatrix sitting by quietly, letting out patronizing little smiles every single time an eye turned her way. The unease in the air was thick as anything, and the two gentlemen (and one extensively squirmy lady) kept glancing at her in disbelief. No one could even begin to believe it. She, Bellatrix Lestrange, she had willingly combated Fenrir Greyback, a Death Eater against a Death Eater. The blood had dried in thick, congealed chunks, the color almost rusty, and though it had begun to irritate her right eye she showed no signs of the discomfort she felt.

The slash Hermione had sustained was sealed and repaired with a simple spell, though the unfortunate lack of Dittany meant it would scar just a touch. Her arms and her hands were functional again, and she was quietly obsessing over the fact that there was no known counter-curse for a _Sectumsempra_, and she'd faltered, inexplicably, and let Bellatrix's idiotic little nature get in the way of her composed countenance. It'd been foolish, but _god, _the woman had this _terrible_ way of making herself so known that she became... well, a nuisance, a distraction, as irritating as a rather compromising rash.

The only one left was McGonagall. Once the trio of Aurors had departed it was she, Hermione, and the infamous Lestrange, plus their newest resident who was still hidden somewhere.

She had remained seated on the couch, spattered in red, uncaringly glaring at the conversation taking place just across the floor and in the kitchen.

"Thank goodness this hadn't happened in the midst of a full moon, or else this problem would have been far more gargantuan."

"Oh, I'm fine, thank you," Bellatrix began, speaking to herself pointlessly, gesturing in the air as she went on, "Oh, yes, absolutely in tip-top shape. I have never felt better. Absolutely not. Chipper and peppy beyond understanding. Not a singular day above forty-five. I most certainly feel twenty years my actual junior."

McGonagall smiled a very tight '_thank you'_ and accepted the tea being poured, and the obviously bored Bellatrix breathed out in exasperation and rolled her eyes, busying herself with the task of figuring out where the new cat was hiding. Where the devil that was happened to be anybody's guess. She couldn't blame the skittish little animal. Within an hour or so of new ownership a werewolf had almost snacked down on its guts.

"That thought _had _occurred to me." Hermione went on, covertly cast a glance toward the Death Eater, just to be sure she wasn't setting the house aflame. She wasn't. But she did seem to find the cat beneath the sofa.

"Of course that would be the first statement out of her mouth. Because stuffy old Minnie is a stuffy old ponce and ravaging flesh and impulses are _fun. _She wouldn't know fun if it slithered out from the Chamber of Secrets and petrified her stupid."

"Hasn't that bloody slop blinded you yet?" McGonagall suddenly snapped, and all too suddenly Hermione choked a little on her cup of Earl Grey. She tried to mute the sound desperately as it nearly tumbled to the table, threatening to make a mess of the little saucer.

"You should be thanking me, Minnie. I saved the hide of your best and brightest little babe."

"I _beg your pardon-"_

"Can't even keep her own wand in hand-"

"-_because someone was insistent on distracting me!" _

The yowl the Siamese let out was sudden and shrill, but nonetheless Bellatrix dragged the kitten from beneath the couch and smothered her in her arms. It was not a cuddle, not a snuggle, but the possessive cling of an animal insistent on proclaiming their territory.

"It's alright," the eldest Black sister cooed, her tone oozing a patronizing sort of affection, "I understand. Some of us cannot duel well under pressure. Not everyone has a natural flair. Some of us are born to manage multiple talents and others are born to assimilate all their knowledge from spending painful hours staring at dull text only to lose all of that knowledge to senility down the line. Poor thing, it's a bit like a handicap, I would suppose. Tragic, really."

"I seem to recall you having some difficulty with the healing and regenerative arts, Lestrange-"

"-Black-" She corrected, but knew it would get her nowhere, anyway. This was beginning to feel like a running theme.

"-and I am willing to put twenty galleons on the fact that your grotesque state of being here and now is because you still aren't very good at repairing yourself."

"Healing spells are for weaklings and the faint of heart." The cat streaked from her grip, then, mewling flatly, relieved to have gotten away as it had loosened and, somehow, she had soured, "It's a stupid faction of magic for people without an adequate pain tolerance. Healing magic. _Dramatic." _

"But you're not very good at it, then." McGonagall grinned haughtily, an expression that made the quiet Hermione Granger lean forward to peer and catch the look on her face. She couldn't believe it. It was a small twitch of the lips, but it was there. It was a competitive, slight spark. For moments at a time she just stared and stared, struck off-guard and in disbelief of the argument's nature, and somehow terrified of its tense sensation. The air quivered. She wondered, idly, why Bellatrix had seemed only annoyed, and had not become honestly angry yet.

"What an interesting accusation. Tell me, Minnie, did you learn to do anything besides turn into a kitten yet? _For my next and most impressive trick, I will transfigure this student into a completely unimpressive animal! Ta-da, I'm bloody gifted! All you students can go home! I've dumped my bag of tricks! I'm out!"_ In that second Hermione felt anxious. Bellatrix's obnoxious giggle bounced off the walls, and she settled finally into a prideful chortle, squirming with a well-disguised wince.

"You're a revolting, incorrigible monster, and I am heavily regretting Miss Granger's decision-"

"Without me she would have been a filthy dog-beast. She would have retained far more than just a tiny little slice." She was up, then, striding calmly into the kitchen. Her steps were smooth as running water, and the tremble in her bones had subsided, returning to her a dignity that left her bloody baptism natural. It seemed fitting for her. It seemed, whether her own blood or someone else's, like she had never removed that warrior's cloak. The kitten flitted from beneath the couch, shadowing her heels nervously, falling back and pushing forward. She took the kettle from the stove and began to pour, somehow managing this so easily that she did not take even a beat to break her black eyes from the old Cat's vivid green ones, "We owe one another nothing more. Our debts are repaid. We stand on even ground."

"There's no debts or even ground, Lestrange. There's still nothing about you I _trust."_

Hermione had heard McGonagall speak about it, but seeing it in action was staggering. Right before they'd left she had viciously recounted, with some level of total resentment, the type of student Bellatrix Lestrange had been when she taught her. So much talent, such a gifted girl, hampered entirely by an inclination toward violence and a nasty attitude of self-entitlement produced from birth into one of the most influential families in the Wizarding World. Bellatrix Black was sincerely impressive, intelligent, and bright, and everyone with breath in their lungs told her so. They spoiled her. They encouraged her haughty, rude behavior. And, more importantly, they fed her darker impulses. And McGonagall _hated her. _

"You're wise about that, Minnie. If I were you I would not trust me, either."

And she split that cruel grin, that hateful, wild-eyed grin, and finally covered it with a raised cup of tea, but still it sat there in her onyx shark's eyes.

* * *

Hermione had absolutely no idea how she had survived what was only an hour. Just one single hour that was hideously rife with a hostility the likes of which she had never known. If Ron and Harry's spats were hell, then this was the ninth level and she was being well and thoroughly punished for the high treason of defending Bellatrix Lestrange. Oh no, it had all been too even. The sky had been too clear. Well, no, too clear wasn't right. Too clear implied that she hadn't just almost been transformed into a horrible, salivating nutjob on all fours. The sky been a bit cloudy but otherwise easily navigated. Now it was storming and the lightning had almost fried her to a crisp.

"As if it isn't bad enough that I have to suffer your inscrutable and putrid company, I assumed that my sentence with Minerva McGonagall only lasted seven years. I've been quite naughty to warrant this extension."

The Gryffindor brushed aside the rather discomforting word choice and sighed instead, ignoring the stupidly coy smirk that would not leave the Death Eater's lips.

"You've been hemorrhaging hostile nonsense for the past hour. Don't you ever tire?"

The old Black blinked slowly, painfully, the mucky, sticky red still squeezing together a few long eyelashes. The set of gashes along her face had become an angry cherry red around the dried-up brown, and her expressions were just mildly hindered. Though the labor in them did not poke through, not as obvious as it was with her arm. It was there one could see the slower agony in bending. It was there a very irritated Hermione Granger could not stop focusing.

"That's going to get infected if you let it be."

"I'll just gnaw it off, then. Isn't like I haven't managed on a steady diet of human flesh before."

"That trick is so outdated by this point that it will need a birthday cake. If you're not going to do it then let me repair."

It was remarkably guarded. The Siamese kitten who was warning comfortably well to Bellatrix purred delightedly when she scratched between its ears with the still-functional hand. It seemed, however, that the Wolf was not about to relax, but she wouldn't fight, either. That awful possibility of any given outcome was there again. It made the Muggle-born feel on edge, but she remembered that she was a lion of Gryffindor and approached gradually.

"Well, Muddy, do you need an invitation? You've got permission to touch me. A privilege I'm sure you've wanted after."

She ignored that tone again, swallowing hard, biting her lip anxiously as she peered away, "I would like it if you would not stare into me like I am some cut of prime beef. It doesn't make my work any simpler."

"Ickle Muddy-Wuddy Baby Boo is scawed of Madame Bella," she put on her best infantile pout, reaching out to softly toy with a strand of chestnut hair, a strange, slightly limp curl. And the worst part about the movement was how deliberate and sweet it was, how casual, "Fine, fine, fine. There's no need to be a little bleeding Princess about it."

"I'm _not _being a 'Princess'." But it was too late. Bellatrix's attention, like it always did, faded in moments. She nudged the kitten gently to the floor and slung her whole wiry physique across the couch, purposefully taking up all the room as she forcefully clenched her eyes shut. She reminded Hermione very much of an animal brought in from a wayward street; mangy and still and silent and tired, but wound up tight as clockwork and twice as violent as it seemed. "It's just a bit distracting. This is going to scar. My absolute lack of Dittany and your stubborn reluctance to accept these as nasty injuries have seen to that. I can't work miracles."

"Then it is only in your best interest to hope your mediocre spell work is satisfactory as can be, else I'll give you a dashing set to match."

"Quite a few choice words for someone asking for help."

There was a certain talent Bellatrix had. She knew it, and that was the deadliest part. No necessity to touch or feel, no physical movement, she could so easily pin anyone down with the sudden sharpness of that glare alone. And for that second Hermione froze, an inadvertent tingle of fear running up her spine, but she stayed knelt and solid. She did not jolt. She wouldn't give the other the satisfaction.

"I'm not _asking, _it was _you _who made the suggestion. In fact, this is a favor to _you." _

"What- Whatever." In fact, she wasn't flustered, she was tired. Far too exhausted to put up with any more of this incessant arguing. It seemed like a never-ending loop of defensive banter and if she dealt with it for even a few more seconds she was going to scream.

Even Hermione Granger couldn't handle this much god-damned aggression on a nonstop basis.

Bellatrix let out a snort and laid back again, settling in a far more comfortable condition than the Gryffindor had initially thought possible. She relaxed, and when she did there was that nagging thought again. So many things up close, so many things she had not prior seen. The depth of those ghastly bags under her eyes, and the way that deep, bruised black of a color seemed to encircle her whole lid. And she had never seen her sleep as a human, let alone seen her in any resting state. As a Wolf she'd been glimpsed a couple times, totally accidental, but as a human? It felt taboo. It felt... too personal.

"A friendly reminder that any of my foul moods are your fault, and this is one. Ordinarily I wouldn't fault you for being transfixed by my _heaving bosom, _but come, come, Muddy, you're not delivering on your promise."

How did one freely agree to touch Bellatrix Lestrange?

Easy.

When Bellatrix Lestrange had willingly come to their defense.

No, she chided herself.

Not Lestrange. Black. She seemed insistent enough on that nonsense. Perhaps it would make the Death Eater's new-found 'cooperation' an easier pill to swallow.

* * *

It was rather bothersome. Though she had promised to sit still she had not. She squirmed and fidgeted, and precisely three times she had lashed out at Hermione ferociously with a reaction that she pretended was involuntary but the Muggle-born was completely sure was not. The end result were four pale lines etched into that pretty, hollow cheek and the same deep gashes torn at her right arm. The full effect of her creepily sallow flesh, which in some lights reflected that of a disturbingly articulated china doll, could not be salvaged.

Hermione Granger knew this because she was tucked neatly behind the coats in the hall closet listening to the rampage just outside the door.

It had started with a glance. A quick look in the bathroom mirror after thirty minutes of the most awkward, uncomfortable situation of her entire life. Thirty minutes of cleaning up the blood of a woman who had spent the better part of her adolescence trying to kill her after said woman had willingly saved her life. Granted, Hermione was doing the same, but as an ambassador for peace and equality, of course, oh yes. It was very different than a tiff with an unhygienic werewolf.

Something in her had instinctively said there was going to be a dreadful onslaught, so she clung to that instinct. It said to her that Bellatrix wouldn't find the hall closet if she searched all day and night, because Hermione had a few clever tricks. And once the calamity died down, then and only then would she safely emerge. And probably have to find a good, solid way to explain herself, but she frankly wanted to regroup from the slowest task she had ever partook in.

A lot of crashing sounds. Ah, yes. Inevitably the books being carelessly shoved from their shelves. A much more full sound, a thud. That meant the sofa was next to go. Ooh. Wince. A louder crack. That sounded relatively like the bathroom door.

Time passed and the largely chaotic maelstrom died down. For all Hermione knew it could have been hours, but she pressed her ear to the door and listened for any signs of breathing on the other side. No. The hall sounded mostly empty.

She turned the knob and padded out, strangely unsurprised. The room beneath the landing that led to the bedrooms was littered with beaten covers and folded pages, torn cushions, objects scattered everywhere. It was an ugly battlefield, and lying on the floor flat on her back was Bellatrix, an arm thrown over her eyes like she was suffering a grotesque migraine.

"Mudblood." She groaned, and the Siamese emerged from beneath her scraggly physique, stretching out on its small, dark brown paws. Hermione braced at the railing and readied herself for the necessity of defense. Hermione stayed wary, prepared to toss out a Stupify or a Flipendo. She held her wand tight in her hand and kept her feet planted.

"Bellatrix?" She asked, and made no move to mask her apprehension.

Without warning a thin piece of parchment in an officiated envelope flew up at her, hitting the high ceiling before harmlessly dropping back down to rest at her feet. She stared, confused.

"That little faction of self-righteous idiots in pointy hats and fancy robes request an audience with me. They want to know my side of things as far as suddenly trying to neuter Greyback. Rightly up in arms about my sudden turn in demeanor, I assume. If they only knew I'd sooner skin Greyback alive for his mangy pelt even when we shared a common interest."

She picked it up, but not before folding her sleeves over her hands to touch it. Couldn't be too careful. Not when Slytherins of an unusual cunning did not like you particularly much.

"The Wizengamot wants to know if your actions were truly honourable. Or they're sending you back to Azkaban."

"The hell they are." The Black growled darkly, but between them, for several bloated moments, they said no more.


	13. For a Fair Judgment

"Why should they want a hearing?" she cleared her throat loudly, trying to disguise the tremor. Her nerves had skyrocketed into total anxiety, and now she thought about it, the real possibility, and how she never wanted to be shut up like those cats in that store, pressed again inside four small walls.

"For the scuffle with Fenrir Greyback. They want to know precisely what happened in your own account."

"I don't see why. _He _busted into _my _home and attempted to harm _me. _I was under the impression that the Ministry was for the magical protection of all Witches and Wizards, not only the ones-"

"Bella." Hermione said softly, and somehow the nickname had come with ease, and neither spoke about it for that moment. It was unbidden, and she didn't know why she felt this striking sympathy, but right then Bellatrix had ceased to be a violent sort and easily become what, to her, was a wild-eyed, scared animal. "No one is sending you back to Azkaban. What I mean to ask is if you would elaborate to me precisely what went on."

"Never again." she shot sharply, and left Hermione wondering if she meant the nickname or the prison. "He came here. He told me he wanted a good laugh. I hit him over the head with a pot. You interrupted my activities. I took your wand after he used an _Unforgivable Curse _on me and I effectively disposed of him."

"Your case doesn't bode very well when you refer to bludgeoning Fenrir Greyback as an 'activity'."

"What else is it? It brought me bloody merriment, it was an _activity." _

There was that silence again. The eldest Black self-consciously touched at the bandage and toyed with it. She peeled it back, pressed it down.

"I'd like you to tell everyone the truth. I don't believe for a moment that Greyback's entire all-encompassing purpose was to poke fun at you, and he would've killed you before I returned if that was his reasoning."

"You think you know madmen so well, don't you, Muddy?"

"No." Hermione snapped, tensing. "I think I know you so well I know when you've been lying. You aren't as difficult to accustom to as you would think, your behaviors. You become as open as a book I've read dozens of times very quickly."

Obsidian eyes narrowed darkly and her lips curled into a sneer, posture rigid at the table. "You're treading awfully heavy, Mudblood. If you aren't cautious you'll fall through."

"Evading. Avoiding. Falsifying." Hermione goaded again, and this time the words came sure and quick, like three shots fired easily from a gun.

She was standing, then, hands braced at the table's edge, lips blossomed into a full-blown scowl. She had never been outright accused of lying before, and it left a hot feeling of displeased frustration behind her eyes. _Even if she was lying... what right did Hermione have to know? _

"If you don't tell them something more than the narrative of a violence-beguiled murderer they'll think you've not changed at all. They'll think you'd still kill someone soon as you'd blink. And I know you won't, because I have seen you. I know because you could have thrown an Unforgivable with my wand, just as easily as you could have breathed. To Greyback and that boy alike. And while you are not the perfect picture of self-restraint, you are more than just a careless killer."

"Aren't you just so bright and shiny, Muddy?" she leaned over, her long arms spindly-thin, her fingers trapping Hermione's chin within their slender grip. She didn't squirm, and that was what half shocked Bellatrix, and to some degree the natural ease of that contact left them both uncomfortable. "I suppose you think it, now, that you've somehow had me de-clawed. That you've turned me tame and domestic."

Brown, brown eyes rolled up and locked with hers, but Hermione did not struggle. She kept her entire body shockingly still, even as those long nails left crescent indents in her skin. "You could have killed _me _when you had my wand. _Twice._ You've got a _cat. _Tell me what really happened."

"I _did. _Greyback-"

She shoved Bellatrix's touch off roughly, deliberately left scathing, burning marks where the nails had scraped. "Tell me _the real reason."_

"That _is _the real reason." she ground through gritted teeth.

"And you trying so hard to get me out? To tell me to leave?"

"You're my chance at freedom, Muddy-"

"We both full well know without my wand you hadn't a chance against him. If the reasoning is as you say it is, Bellatrix, you'd have sooner laid down a strip of bright lights from the house with a sign out front that read _Welcome home, Mudblood, now come inside and give me your wand."_

"I had the situation under perfect control-"

"With the forty percent of your face not obscured by blood and your damaged dominant arm?! Or with your primary weapon a fire engine red macaroni pot with no magical properties!? Now you're beginning to sound like you believe your own half-witted excuse, unless next you'd like to tell me you were feeling particularly suicidal!"

"I don't have to answer to you-"

"Or you can spend the remainder of your life in a very cold, very dark cell with nothing but your own thoughts to cling to and that self-satisfying madness of yours for company!"

"Is that a threat, Mudblood?"

Hermione faltered, and suddenly, she found herself ultimately frozen. It hadn't been meant that way, not like she was casting aside what had become her own duty. No, she was the last to desert. So she choked, "No, I wouldn't—"

A hand grabbed her roughly by the hair, entwined in her chestnut curls so tightly that she felt like every follicle had been ripped from her scalp. "Greyback came because he wanted to turn you into a stupid, filthy, mangy, slobbering werewolf. And I retaliated because, while you are the dirt beneath my boot heels, you are not the ground I trod on each day. You are _my _dirt, you are _my _filth, and I wouldn't fancy you whimpering and simpering beneath anyone else, especially such a disgusting excuse for a life like Fenrir Greyback. I wouldn't wish it on you, my worst, most putrid enemy, not for all the diluted, dirty blood in your veins."

Awestruck beyond reason, Hermione tried to do a thing but stare open-mouthed when Bellatrix released her. She had no words, and for several moments she sat there like a fish that wanted for water but settled for air. She was acutely aware of how she had destroyed all the trust she'd earned in one fell swoop. She felt somehow horrible, somewhat traitorous.

"Tell Kingsley bloody Shacklebolt that. It is what you've wanted, isn't it, Muddy? To let the Ministry know what a good and caring girl I've been. Kudos to you for my flawless reform! Look here, you've made me into a human being! What a job well done! What a success story!" She'd gotten to laughing, but at that moment Hermione was more frightened of the Death Eater—the _ex_ Death Eater—than she had ever been before. Now, there was this sort of insanity that seemed like a subcategory to her all-encompassing madness. It was this manic sensation, like she had been pushed into something that had not before been circumnavigated, and it left the Muggle-born with a distinct fear of what was true spontaneity. It left her trapped between a rock and a hard place, the rock labeled_ Sincerity_ and the hard place rotting, labeled boldly, _Frenzy. _

"You're a fool." Hermione Granger said quietly, but it narrowly wasn't voluntary. It was a whispered declaration, rather cross, and the moment those dark eyes flicked to hers she was startled by how immovable she was, by how used to that spine tingling she had learned to live with day in and day out. Now it was nothing, the arachnid sensation that plagued her, like tiny spiders gently crawling all over her body en masse. She'd begun this quest arachnophobic and had quickly learned how to climb the fear and soldier past it. "You're daft. You're a complete git. You'd destroy your chance to get off scot-free because you might bend your stubborn pride just a bit? That's _bonkers. _It's—there's no genuine word for how moony that would be of you. In the grand scheme of things, you have committed a great deal more sins than the entirety of the Dark Lord's regime all combined and here you've got this mental ace up your sleeve and you've been playing it the entire time, but you never expected to have to cooperate. And you never expected that you'd have to become just a touch more _malleable. _But now that you've reached that crossroads and it's got to be had, just a bit of conformity, you'd halt everything in its tracks and just throw this all away like rubbish. Yes. You may be clinical, but this, this is the point where you've rocketed directly past off your nut and become a complete idiot."

Silence ordinarily didn't have a sound. Normally, silence was silence, the lack of anything between noises, the gaps where audio was not had. Right then silence was as loud as words, if not louder. Right then, silence was akin to the methodic beat of a heart thrumming loudly beneath floorboards. Right then, silence was the strike of a hammer on an anvil with each beat; slow, but thundering, and so deafening it was almost not noise at all.

"Sorry," Hermione shot instinctively, because for days she had been 'sorry' for all these things she did not agree with. Her brow crinkled, "No. What am I doing? I'm not sorry. If you don't learn to behave in a social setting with people who don't much fancy you- and, by the way, they've all been given their reasons- you may as well begin folding your clothes and packing your bags accordingly this moment."

"Is this where that ugly Gryffindor bravery rears its head and you roar on your hind legs, Muddy?" To some degree, though admitting it was not in her particular modus operandi, Bellatrix could recognize the level of courage Hermione Granger had adopted. Perhaps it took a couple runs around the clock, but hell, she'd called the eldest Black sister an idiot. If that wasn't more than most had referred to her as, enemy or friend, she didn't know what was.

"Do you want to go back to Azkaban?"

That sneer darkened the older woman's face again, and she scoffed loudly, or as loudly as one could scoff, "You are asking stupid questions."

"The Wizengamot and the Ministry of Magic is a mostly corrupt operation built upon political power. Fairness and justice are rare as unicorns. Your recent actions cannot be looked upon favorably unless your attitude reflects them. So you'll have to understand that you cannot stand trial explaining your defense against Greyback while throwing out what a great bunch of tossers they all are. If you say that you did it merely for the sport, well, you're Bellatrix bloody Lestrange-"

"-Black-"

"-_I know. _But therein lies my point. _They _don't. To them, you're Bellatrix Lestrange. And I can't say proving otherwise will sway any opinions, but maybe trying to do so will."

"I don't see why I've got to prove a thing to a lot of fat, inferior Witches and Wizards who likely did not lift a finger for their so-called causes during the War, ready to judge me for actions they, themselves, did not try to prevent. Why I should need to make them understand my superiority and my motives. Just a political sham of cowards hiding behind sturdy desks and preaching their empty qualifications. I would love a galleon from each who hadn't been on the receiving end of a well placed _Crucio."_

"The best thing you can do is graciously bow your head and tell them the truth of your altercation. That he intended to turn me and you defended because you- don't like werewolves very much, I suppose."

"Nasty, rabid, flea-bitten things. Worse than Mudbloods. At least you did not ask for your handicap. Greyback always went about flaunting his genetic defect."

"It isn't a handicap. And it is precisely things like that you cannot say," she felt it again, that tweaked annoyance, and wanted to knock herself out with a brick for need of mercy. She was so exhausted of the racist nonsense that it was a wonder her nerves had frayed so badly she no longer reacted nastily. Just exhausted. "It isn't as though I'm blind or immobilized. Those things are handicaps. I've just got two parents who can't use magic. And since they can't, but I can, aren't I technically the one _without _the handicap?"

"No," Bellatrix replied automatically, her face an open book, that expression of fake sincerity written large in her eyes, "You can't ever be as good as a pure-blood, by talent or definition. It is a handicap."

"I think my OWLs were easier than this."

* * *

"You certainly cannot tell a version of your story in which you elaborate on how you briefly considered tearing his jugular out with your teeth. Nor can you tell one where he 'deserved it vastly for being a dirty half-thing'. You cannot say either of those things in a court of Wizarding Law after being a raging war criminal and expect not to be incarcerated."

"Boo," Bellatrix murmured tiredly, glancing away out the window. They had been at it all night, and McGonagall would be arriving in—yes, precisely an hour to accompany them safely to the Ministry of Magic. Kingsley, of course, had a number of duties he had been asked to perform that had begun at five o'clock in the morning. Being a hair's breadth from acting minister, Kingsley Shacklebolt couldn't be Hermione's personal guardian any longer.

Her sleeves had been rolled up and she was trying her best to get the restless Black to listen, but had yielded no results. She merely watched Bellatrix balance a number of objects on her nose, get up, pace for several minutes, roughly grab the Cat, smother the Cat, test the aerodynamics of the pasta pot like she was preparing to indulge in a bit of tennis with it, hum erratically, and repeatedly open the refrigerator in search of things that were not held therein.

"Are you at least halfway capable of explaining to me what you plan to tell the Wizengamot in light of your sudden burst of heroics?"

With the Cat thrown haphazardly over one arm like a towel on a rack and the other yanking for the cupboard, she saw the narrow outline of Bellatrix's shoulders rise in a great, indifferent shrug.

The clock seemed to suggest it was 6:30 in the morning, and Hermione wanted to believe it was wrong. So she just lurched forth and promptly smacked her face on the table, resting her forehead there for a few long, long moments. From the world outside her dark vision the Cat mewled loudly in distress, and the cupboard slammed shut, and a growl complained for the utter lack of jam for toast, and she wanted nothing more than to shrink down and disappear into obscurity.

Just a half an hour before Bellatrix Black would undoubtedly be sending _herself_ back to Azkaban.


	14. Deserved

Every effort made by Hermione to put Bellatrix in a less threatening outfit was brushed off and ignored with great conviction. They were completely fucked. It was a word Bellatrix used often, but Hermione never did, although this was certainly one of the times when it was appropriate.

"Are you alright, Hermione?" McGonagall had asked her this four times, not out of repetitive concern, but out of the fact that deep inside the annals of her thoroughly foggy brain she had not really heard the first three. It was all very perturbing, and she had only just realized that now her professor had begun to call her by her first name, and not being referred to as 'Granger' was a strange but perhaps not unwelcome change.

She blinked hard a couple times, followed by a couple more, a slow, labored reaction that made her feel like she was ungluing her eyelids each time she did it.

"She didn't sleep. She persisted in prattling on and on and on through the evening like some useless, informational pamphlet. I fell asleep, at a point, but that is mostly for the reason that I was so _bloody fucking bored."_

"I hate her." Hermione groaned out, absolutely past the point of censorship. Politeness had eroded almost completely, and within these past few weeks (God, had it _been_ that long?) she had found parts of herself so ugly she did not ever want to unearth them to the light of day. They had prior remained cloaked only to the one person so insufferable she wanted to just kill her at least a good three-quarters of the time, but now they were out there, walking around beside her. Now she truly had _revolting_ qualities.

"Lestrange." McGonagall snapped, clearly having none of it.

_"Black."_ Bellatrix corrected, her voice a dull drone.

The Ministry of Magic was just as she had remembered it, but it, too, was still in the cold grip of reformation. Hogwarts was admittedly the worst pile of pebbles to be demolished by the Second Wizarding War, but Voldemort had not left much untouched.

There was this positively sinking feeling in her gut that would not go away, and this made Bellatrix feel a discomfort she would not openly express. No, the Mudblood and the old, mangy Cat wouldn't be privy to even a touch of her anxiety.

She was seeing it, then, all around her, and it was turning her stomach for the worse. _She really had lost. __**They**__ really had lost. And this was not her world anymore._ Her great and terrible arrogance held together with the tenacity of a spider-web, and in spite of being particularly innocent (something she had never been in the face of a trial) and having a witness to her act of chivalrous _do-goodery_ (what a grotesque taste it left in her mouth to know she was defended by a _filthy, Mud-blooded, Muggle-raised Gryffindor)_ she did not feel on the greener side of the fence, as it were.

"You mustn't fret. An anxious attitude breeds a sense of misconstrued guilt. They'll mistake your silence for a lie." She did not know why she was still talking, let alone why she was hell-bent on reassuring the human wreckage that was Bellatrix Lestrange. She didn't want to, but she knew the quiet like reading writing on the wall. The silence was a devastating discomfort. Bellatrix was rarely quiet. Sometimes she spoke just to hear herself.

"If this is such an innocent hearing, why is courtroom ten to be my condemnation?"

The torches illuminated the gaunt state of her cheekbones in their weakened orange glitters. The flames, enchanted, threw eerie shadows across Bellatrix's face as they made their ways deeper into the Ministry. Hermione felt like she was traveling with a human anatomy skeleton. Every protruding bone over skin spread so thin and taut poked viciously from her body, cast the darkest dustings of shade across her sickly skin. She was made of creased parchment and damnation and sallow, jaundice-shaded flesh, and those marble-black eyes became unrecognizable above the bottomless rings they were built into. She could imagine the much older witch blind, those sockets empty. She would not have looked much different. It made Hermione shiver.

"Because courtroom ten is for convicted criminals, Lestrange, convicted criminals who are being tried for crimes they are innocent for, but I suppose none of the jury can possibly begin to believe their innocence." The old Transfiguration professor's satisfaction rate was through the roof. To some degree she hoped that this would go ill in the Black's favor, and they'd send her right back where she belonged and call this venture a complete and utter failure, just as it should have been labeled.

But in spite of all this there was a worried concern in Hermione's completely fatigued gaze, and old McGonagall couldn't help but wonder if Bellatrix's tune had changed enough to warrant that glance.

Frankly, it made her just a bit peeved.

"Please try not to call anyone a dim-witted imbecile."

Hermione masked the thin veil of surprise as it overtook her face, but with a great heave of her skinny shoulders Bellatrix Black heaved open the large doors to Courtroom Ten, and she flounced in just like she was the Queen Mother herself.

* * *

To anyone who did not have the ironclad conviction of a battle-hardened ex-Death Eater and a many-years-old Transfiguration genius who also happened to be the veteran of two wars, Courtroom Ten held the chill of a prison interrogation room. Shaped like some gladiatorial octagon, the walls adorned with brightly burning torches, a mass of around fifty Witches and Wizards were seated stone-faced behind a small partition. There was a single seat in the center of the room, and in an old, friendly, familiar way Bellatrix had a sudden inkling that this lovely seat was hers.

"Did a beauty of a redecoration on this place. Quite homey, and you all look simply stunning. 1981 is a touch far in the past, though, perhaps not everything is a classic."

When she sat down in the large, high-backed chair, there was something about her demeanor that changed. It was the strangest thing, absolutely ridiculous, but she seemed to easily metamorphose from the dismantled creature she had been for the past night to this completely composed animal, sitting with a predatory alertness that reminded her of why Bellatrix's Animagus form was precisely what it was.

There, glory be to God, there sat Kingsley Shacklebolt at the most honorable seat.

"The court recognizes Bellatrix Lestrange in defense of her actions against the convicted Fenrir Greyback, a werewolf and a Death Eater, guilty of assaulting a Witch and acts of treason against the Wizarding community. Can you recount the event for us, Madame Lestrange?"

_"Black._ And why do I answer to this sorry, humorless audience when I have clearly done no wrong apart from saving the life of this dear, sweet, precious little _Muggle-born?"_

Though McGonagall had been shooed out prior, Hermione remained as a witness, and she couldn't believe her ears. Some part of sensibility had wormed its way into Bellatrix's brain, and she hadn't been a Mudblood, no, she was a Muggle-born? She rocked forth on her heels a moment, standing on her toes, returning to the ground in a motion that felt a proud one well deserved.

"Because it is difficult to believe that you spared someone of impure blood, Lestra—"

The moment Bellatrix jumped to open her mouth, Hermione intercepted quickly, "I beg your pardons, esteemed members of the Wizengamot, but I believe as a Witch within this community and one widowed from a war criminal Madame Black retains the authority and rite to be referred to be her surname of choice, especially in light of her recent situation. She has several times before this arrangement renounced 'Lestrange'."

Hermione did not mention her offense at 'impure' rather than 'Muggle' or 'mixed', but it was somehow refreshing to know Bellatrix wasn't the only flagrant goddamn racist.

A woman with particularly lustrous black hair curled like something out of a '50's magazine rolled her light brown eyes and settled back in her chair, exasperated. The look the Dark Witch shot Hermione could have soured milk, but she raised a finger to her mouth and slipped that nail between her lips, grinning coyly at the crowd. The moment of sharp, whip-like displeasure faded quickly from her face.

"Miss Granger makes a point to be observed. If Madame Lestrange's preference is to be known by her given name..." Kingsley glanced expectantly at the eldest Black sister, who gave him a smile pushed so tight together it was a pout.

"And by the noble and most ancient House of Black, Minister, it is." Bellatrix chirped sweetly, all venom gone from her words. She spoke as saccharine as a cupcake, but if anyone knew better it was this room full of Witches and Wizards. The icing had expired and there were maggots in the batter.

"...then she retains the rite, indeed. It is to be observed henceforth."

"You see, I'd been complacently minding my own business when old Fenrir, the great, mangy tosser of a flea-farm, so rudely and illegally interrupted my patient vigil awaiting the Muggle-born's return. Ran into a spot of trouble the day prior buying provisions when a pair of rowdy children had antagonized me. The girl had the foresight to recognize that, in my unique and rather delicate mental condition, the best route and the safest would be to avoid those who might... _upset me."_

Hermione did not know how, but Bellatrix held a captive audience in the palm of her grizzled hand. If they weren't frightened, they were intrigued. It was a bit like watching an animal that had not yet been categorized whose behavior was a blank page to all. If ever magic had been something she could believe in, something she could see with her very own eyes, it was Bellatrix Black who wove it in her actions, in her words without even a Wand.

"He made me partake in such an unnecessary kerfuffle, Minister. I'd every intent to continue reading my book until he appeared from out of the absolute blue, baring his teeth and threatening the health of both myself and the Muggle-born. So I did what any proper Witch of noble birth would do when faced with such an affront of species as a Werewolf, especially one as hostile and idiotic as Fenrot- I flung myself forth in self defense with the assistance of a pot."

"And when Miss Granger showed up, Madame Black?" Kingsley was treading lightly, his ears harshly disbelieving every word said. He glanced Hermione with a brief and evident shock, clearly assessing if this was the work of a Polyjuice or not. The way she wrung her hands proved to him easily that it was, in fact, not.

"She was faced with a _Sectumsempra_ inflicted injury that rendered her dueling arm useless, so I squared him away with a _Stupefy_ and the Aurors were alerted for clean-up."

"Miss Granger, as witness, do you confirm Madame Black's story?"

_She could still see the way Bellatrix was laid out on the floor, writhing and suffering against the waves of Crucio-afforded agony, and the wild flash of brief light in those black eyes, almost like panic. The way that voice screamed out, "Get out of here, you idiot!" and meant it, so purely meant it, in a way that both confused and unhinged the world Hermione knew._

"Yes," Hermione did not quite lie, but she watched the details fall away, drop into the stricken look on Bellatrix's face that day and that strangely urgent tone, "Yes. Madame Black is honest. The scratches at her cheek and the scars at her arm are direct results of this altercation."

"And with that I pronounce Madame Black innocent, and in light of recent events return to her wand privileges under a strict eye. Three times a week Aurors shall randomly pay visits to monitor her spell usage." It was then the room exploded in an arguing fit of voices, all furiously turned toward the acting Minister. They were a chorus of angry words, and he endured the whirlwind with that same gracious, quiet patience Hermione had so admired Kingsley for. He was the man who would make the right decision whether or not it was popular, and she adored that about him. It took conviction. His voice rose above the clamor, though, decided and booming, and in spite of itself it was never a shout, "Enough. It's become abundantly clear that Madame Black has made an ample amount of enemies, and should she have wanted to inflict harm she easily could have done it with Miss Granger's wand. To leave her without an instrument is to deny her the basic right of self-protection. This hearing is adjourned."

* * *

"Well, now that I've got my little corner of freedom back, I suppose it's off to Ollivander's for a bit of a reward. I did tell you, Muddy, see? _What a good little girl I've been."_

"That- That won't be necessary. We know where your wand is."

There it was, the way Hermione was used to her. That distant, bored look. Like it took too much effort to pay attention in one place so she just let her mind wander, her eyes lethargically crawling from one target to the next. They never focused, only drifted, "So shall I be expecting a pit-stop? Who's got it? Pottie, that Weasel mongrel? Shacklebolt, locked up tight, I expect?"

"No. I do."

She had mentally saddled up. Preparing herself for the storm, the raging tempest. She had tied herself to the mast, and she was ready for the hurricane. It was going to crash against her. It was going to pound her, to drown her.

But Bellatrix only snuck her a pleased, sickening smile, and Hermione could not tell if she was truly satisfied or somehow angry.

She was already mentally racing through ways to dodge the _Avada Kedavra._


	15. This Is A Call to Arms, Gather Soldiers

The box had been kept safely in a zippered compartment of her suitcase for some time. It was easy enough to keep secret. Bellatrix didn't particularly enjoy touching any of her 'Muggle-tainted' things, so most of Hermione's possessions were safe. It truly did astound her, how much Bellatrix favored pride over self-gain. With the slack Hermione cut her, the woman could have lifted her wand in the middle of the night, made off with it, and never looked back.

To do that would be an underhanded trick against a Mudblood, and Hermione knew that if she was to best her on any turf, it would be even ground without any deceptions involved.

Bellatrix Black and deceptions didn't mix.

The long, rectangular box had housed the awful walnut thing for some time. She hated it. Those moments she had used it felt—well, she would never say it aloud, never admit it to a soul, but the wand felt like it could have been hers. She was always overrun with the chilly sensation, and the nasty deeds Bellatrix committed felt embedded deep in the wood, but there was something else there. It was like entering a cave and hearing the dank drip of water deep within. It was there, somewhere, but she felt entranced by the desire to look for it, and when the wand bent that rapidly to her will, when she contemplated searching out the little splatters, that was when she was finished using the dreadful thing. She couldn't take the natural way it obeyed her, and furthermore, could not take the natural way she had silently desired to obey it.

She had looked into it, seeking to quell her own psyche. _A Walnut wand will, once subjugated, __perform any task the owner desires, provided that the owner is of sufficient brilliance._ She had disbelieved the Wandlore explanation, had tried to argue against it, but the first line stared her right in the face. _Highly intelligent witches and wizards ought to be offered a Walnut wand for trial first, because in nine cases out of ten the two will find in each other their ideal mate. _It had made her sick to her stomach, but she kept quiet the similarity and never spoke of it again. Instead, she sought to shut the thing up and away from her sight for as long as she could, but some part of her wouldn't destroy it. Some part of her couldn't damage something as sacred as a wand. Even if it was a desecrated part of a vile, then-dead-woman's memory, there was something wrong about breaking it.

"Didn't take you for a keeper of prizes, Muddy."

They'd gotten in after a peevish McGonagall had left, clearly flustered and mildly irate that Bellatrix had not been kicked to the curb for bad behavior. No, instead she'd exhibited qualities that she had not seen from the insane Black sister since she was a child, and that was charismatic manipulation. Everyone had assumed her inclination toward the radically violent had eroded every ounce of behavior she had in her, Hermione included, but with the right incentive it seemed that was untrue.

"I cannot believe the nonsense you just pulled," She had to shove lightly at the advancing Black, push her a bit to keep the distance she wanted for a moment or two, "You kept me up all night fretting over your indecency and then you willfully paraded about like a prized show-pony. Would you like to explain where this sudden burst of humanity came from?"

"I've been a good girl and now I'll have my reward." She clutched that death-grip of a claw to Hermione's shoulder, but the brunette just slid the box gently behind her, ignoring the restraint. She wouldn't be letting Bellatrix have it until the say-so was given, and that was final. A little cruelly, perhaps, she held the leash, and she pulled it tighter.

"Tell me what your game was and you'll have your treat."

"Oh, you're really pushing it, Muddy, to a dangerously hostile extent—"

"_Tell me."_

She sighed and stamped a foot, releasing the other girl's arm, pouting, forcefully kicking the coffee table. It didn't matter much, not if you asked her, but she upheld her own honor code, and the way the little Granger girl had piped up for the sake of her surname was, begrudgingly, a favor.

So she couldn't kill the little beast until that was fairly repaid.

"Fifteen years in utter solitude is an experience I've truly no desire to relive. I'll even prefer the daily inhalation of subdued disease due to living with your kind to such absolutely tedious boredom. Curtsy and pander, it's the easiest way through a trial." The words slid out through her grinding teeth, and her fists were harshly stuck at her sides, trembling beneath the great force of her discomfort.

"Good enough."

There weren't words to stop her, because the ex-Death Eater bowled Hermione right over, boxing her ears and forcing her out of the way, and she had landed on the box as though she were covering a grenade to contain the blast. She fiddled for the small length of wood and finally grasped it, proclaiming so with a cackling cry easily more mirthful than anything Hermione had ever heard from her mouth. When her ears stopped ringing and sound returned to the world Bellatrix was sprawled out on her back, triumphantly clutching the wand in her right hand.

"Oh yes, I'll never, ever leave you again, never ever, no, no, absolutely not. Never, and how frightening it must have been in the hands of the Mudblood. I'm sorry I didn't rescue you much sooner. No, Bellatrix will never, ever leave you again, not ever."

"You didn't have to do that, you know!" Hermione snapped, crawling to her knees. She adjusted her hair and threaded her fingers through it in a huff, glancing uneasily at the rather drugged-looking Witch still enclosed in her own euphoric bubble.

It was at this point that Icarus began to screech, to scream as an owl who had seen prey, and he started flapping his wings so vigorously that his cage rocked about from the great force of his movements. Hooting and hollering, the creature wouldn't quit, and the Cat darted from under the sofa to hiss loudly, which at least revealed her hiding spot.

Bellatrix and Hermione alike had bolted up, and with a quick flick of her wrist the eldest Black sister dropped a wordless silencing spell on the chaotic barn owl. The sounds drowned out inside the hex, and for a moment Hermione was impressed with the aptitude she conducted the magic. It was true, then, that for a Witch such a thing was as easy as remembering how to ride a bicycle. Hermione had never gone long without her wand once she had one, and even then she had not gone very long without _a _wand, if hers wasn't the wand being used.

"What in the name of Merlin's beard is that wretched rat with wings on about?"

"He's _not_ a _rat with wings!" _

"The hell he isn't, and since he's yours you'll see what's wrong with him!"

"Icarus, what is it?" She got up and, grumbling, shifted over, the bird hooting loudly into the vacuous emptiness of the spell, feathers suddenly flying everywhere. She reached forward to the cage and unlatched the door, leaning in to take up the bird and soothe his wild ways, but that wasn't where the madness ended.

In a great tangle of fluff and feather Hermione found herself smacked in the face with a wing, and the creature flew straight past after nearly gouging her flesh with his talons, instead swooping to Bellatrix with the rabid speed of a bird possessed.

She raised the wand and made to throw a spell, scowl inlaid deep into her features, but Hermione was quick enough to throw a wordless knockback of a jinx and it toppled the elder Witch off-balance, quickly tossing off a brief motion like a swashbuckler. And then, peculiarity of peculiarities, the bird grasped the wand from its returned owner's hand and gave a great beat of his wings, soaring swiftly out the open window.

"YOU GREAT MUDBLOODED NEANDERTHAL, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!"

"You got in the way!"

"I GOT IN THE—" effectively perplexed, the dark-haired Witch darted to the windowsill and stared hard at the retreating form of the owl, narrowing her dark eyes as she spoke beneath her breath, "I got in the way."

The young brunette lightly waved her wand and a small, thin, spider-web-like length of light emitted and traced along a path, leading straight out the window. Yes, there was that memory, an ever-present reminder. Everything was going too well, and it had to go to crap again. No, she was done with this.

"I've had quite enough of this nonsense."

"Quick thinking for a Mudblood."

"Are we going to bloody well banter all day or have you resigned yourself to wand-less lifestyle? Because this spell won't hold forever, and I'd like to comprehend what brand of devious this is." Without a single word, Bellatrix turned a maddened eye to her and split another one of those grins, those excitable expressions that turned Hermione's insides to uncomfortable mush. She was still adjusting to accepting that look without expecting malice thereafter.

"Ooh hoo _hoo, _my, aren't we demanding?!" Without the least concern, Bellatrix Lestrange somehow easily managed to hop over the windowsill and outside, still in a constricting black corset and rather gratuitous skirt. The Gryffindor followed after. Jeans were certainly not as restrictive.

"I cannot even believe I'm doing this!"

"Well you aren't, I am! I'm a touch quicker than you!" And in a shudder and shake of her pallid flesh the maddened Witch rippled and shifted easily into that mangy wolf, taking off in a breathless run. For a moment she was completely comfortable, and it was such rapture to feel the heat of urgency at her heels again.

There was a careless, swift madness to Bellatrix that made Hermione constantly uncomfortable. For one, she darted through the thickly forested underbrush, tearing hundreds of small, bloodied slices in her fur as she went. But it didn't matter, and as she disappeared from Hermione's view the Muggle-born could only breathlessly think about how careless the supposedly brilliant former Slytherin was.

Bellatrix's black eyes kept trained on the string of barely humming light, those big, satellite ears attuned to the faint singing of the attached spell. Surprisingly, it was well-formed and sturdy, and the owl that had been their once-pet hadn't shaken the charm. Likely the creature hadn't even noticed it.

The eldest Black sister saw the bird swoop down into a suffocatingly wooded cluster, the trees bent and ridden so tightly with foliage that she could not follow it further. The beat of wings had silenced and from within she hear nothing else, but this alarming sudden quiet felt unnatural, artificial.

Hah. She swiftly trotted and slipped beneath a present bush, conscious not to crack a single twig and utterly out of sight. Hunkered and watching, Bellatrix Lestrange seemed more a lioness than a wolf.

It took a handful of minutes before Hermione finally caught up, breathing tiredly, hair sticky with sweat. She hesitantly glanced around and inched forward, whispering aloud, "Bellatrix?!"

When no response came, she watched the last of her spell fade away, and she noted, quite easily, that it led right into the thicket.

The wolf watched as the lamb descended, ears flattened, tail down, and it did not know, particularly, if it was stalking prey or feeling somehow protectively territorial.


	16. It Seems So Real to Me

The boy's nose was crooked and flat to his face, practically reaching to touch his lip when he curled it upward as though he had smelled something atrocious. But his eyes were a black that echoed faintly of Bellatrix, and the first thing Hermione noticed was that the fine, brown hairs on his arms were speckled with white bits, the likes of which she could tell was not a trick of the light, as the thick, well-hidden underbrush was cloaked in shadow. His eyes were large and round and listlessly alien in spite of his expression, and it left the Gryffindor worriedly considering where her charge had gone to.

In the boy's hand, and he might not have been more than sixteen, was the length of dark walnut that was Bellatrix's wand.

"Icarus?" Hermione reasoned calmly, though she did nothing to expect his cooperation.

"Hoot bloody hoot." The boy managed, but his tone shook and Hermione noted the jolted tremble in his left thumb. Unconscious anxiety. Just her kind of situation. She stored it through with a patient calm and glanced around as the darkness gave way to scattered humanities.

The first was a woman who did not seem very tall at all, but she was thick in the shoulders and moved with a swagger that bespoke the ability to carry exactly a ton. Her hair was tugged back into a ponytail that swayed along her back as she walked, and her frigid blue eyes didn't shift at all when her mouth broke into a slow grin.

"Often hard to believe such a little tyke can cause such big problems." The woman's voice was crackling thunder, and the boy, the Owl-boy, nervously twisted the wand this way and that in his hands. It was clear and present on his face that the instrument of such howling torture made him uncomfortable, and the feral-looking lady turned her head languidly to peer over her shoulder at him, the amusement draining on her face like blood from a wound. "Oi. Stop your nonsense before I beat it out of ya. If you're gonna act like a great big child you're gonna stay out of the grown up business."

The boy fell silent as another shape emerged, swallowed and spat up by the shadows. It was a man this time, with a tall, wiry body like a marionette on its strings and a large section of his nose entirely absent from his face. It took Hermione a moment to adjust, but she did, and still kept her right hand wrapped around the handle of her wand.

"Don't you look bloody appetizing. You must be the Mudblood what had our alpha clapped in irons and dragged to Azkaban. You've been wretched, lass." Silently, the brunette flicked her wand behind her back and breathed the softest word with her chin tucked down and pointed to her chest, using the obscured dark to her benefit. The silencing charm around them cleared, just the smallest hitch in the air, and she thought, feeling admittedly naive, that if perchance Bellatrix could hear her she stood a chance of relocating the eldest Black sister.

A long-shot, she knew, but she'd taken shots that were considerably longer.

"Do you mean... Do you mean Fenrir Greyback?"

Flattened along the shrubbery Bellatrix's ears pricked up like satellites and swayed, shifting, sniffling briefly along the ground. Werewolves. She smelled the brutish, impure blood from where she'd stayed hidden, and the more she thought it, the more bothered she became with her initial plan.

She could have just idled by as they tore Hermione Granger to shreds. She had given her dignity, her individuality, her humanity, her cause, she had given everything for this freedom. Hermione's words hissed in the back of her head. _The world is your house arrest._ She was so weary. She did not want to run.

"No, lass, I mean the other Werewolf you sent off to stare at the four walls. _Of course _I mean Greyback."

But the options in her muddled mind tipped the scales this way and that. Hermione stood between her and another sentence. The Mudblood inadvertently kept her safe, and gave her what she seemed to want: neutrality. The girl's death, the difficult device it would be, could toss a wrench in the works and send her back to captivity. At least with Hermione she had a puppet to play with, strings to pull, conversation to be had, civility to be shown. At least in this situation she could manipulate. In a cell she couldn't do a thing but patiently wait for someone to get close enough to unshackle her for feeding time and bite their bloody nose off. What a dull form of entertainment.

The lanky gentleman with the missing nasal cavity inched a bit closer and Hermione flicked out immediately, lashing with the speed of a viper and a swiftly yelled, _"EXPELLIARMUS!"_, to which the wand flew enthusiastically from his hand and his rather unconscious body was next to follow suit.

Fear was a powerful motivator, Hermione Granger knew that much. Powerful enough to jostle a Werewolf unconscious.

"I want to know what's going on here." Hermione demanded, and from around her the woods seemed to softly breathe to life. They did, indeed, trees and shrubs, foliage, and the scarce, slow intermingling of human bodies, bedraggled, wild things, dancing forth from the dark. Her eyes darted to take them all in, but the Muggle-born found herself in a gothic horror painting she could not soon escape.

The short woman did not even cast a look to what Hermione presumed was her husband but did not very much seem to be at second thought. This, indeed, consumed her mind for all of a split second before she realized this meant she was surrounded on almost all sides.

"We'll find the others soon. The mongrel run with us, after all. For now you, little troublemaker, you'll do well enough. You'll taste like tender meat. We'll spice you up and crunch your bones, and when we find the one we want we'll bring her to him and he'll be happy enough to take her right out." The woman's Scottish brogue filled her mouth as entirely as a set of marbles stocked inside one's jaw, but unmistakably Hermione computer her words. Who were all these 'others'?

Her heart leapt in her throat when something out of the corner of her eye caught her attention, and the boy with the wild, soft brown hair rolled the wand in his grip a few feet along the forest floor gently, the motion so simple from her point of view that it was a wonder to Hermione how no one else had seen.

She heard the slow step of leaves and twigs cracking underfoot, and so did the rest of the Werewolf brood, as Hermione had assumed, but she motioned behind her back to what she was confident was Bellatrix to lay off for even just a moment.

"'He'? You must be very behind on the news, then. Voldemort is quite assuredly squared away. If you hadn't heard, we took care of that business." Hermione felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle to attention, felt Bellatrix's raven eyes boring disdainfully into her back. She had a feeling this was going to lead to another thrashing, and how absurd this was, to be sandwiched between an enemy, and a questionable friend who might have been an enemy. When had her life gotten this complicated?

"Have you made yourself fat on that belief, then?" The woman questioned, and Hermione's wrist tensed, her back straightening. Paranoia raged full force. Was she to be betrayed this way?

Was this a set-up?

All that work for nothing.

_"Stupefy!" _

Hermione immediately went to mouth a _'Rennervate', _to whirl and face the very person she had so misguidedly decided it would benefit to reform, and in some place inside her chest she felt her heart sink like a stone thrown into the ocean. This betrayal was worse than the simple act of personal. This betrayal was faith-shaking. This betrayal was a direct blow to Hermione's belief in good.

Perhaps this time she had waited too long to take her hand off the stove.


	17. Far From the World of You and I

The word stuck in her mouth. It trapped itself like she'd been sloppily gnawing on far too much peanut butter. In fact, when the bright red spell whizzed past her and slammed the wild-woman square in the chest Hermione felt her jaw go slack. For a swift second, Bellatrix Black was her goddamned hero, and she found she could not restrain the enthusiastic holler of, "Oh, _brilliant!"_

"I go possible thousands of miles from actualized civilization and still I manage to attract the stench of idiocy." Bellatrix quickly prodded with a nasty stab at Hermione's cheek, a chastising motion as if to punish her delight. It was strange to see the frigid business end of Bellatrix, the side of her that did not coo and giggle and cackle and mock like an immature schoolgirl.

This was Voldemort's lieutenant, his general, his first and last line of defense. If she had been a poisonous sort, if she had felt that cold stab of power like an irritated shard of metal twisting in her gut, Hermione Granger might have fancied the whispering desire for manipulation. It was beguiling, she could admit, the notion and idea of it. To know that if she could find a way that leashed hyena that had been Voldemort's could also be hers. It was something evident to her eyes as Bellatrix stayed motionless and still, like a chess piece on a board that at any moment could move on its own.

"A Mudblood, Bellatrix Lestrange, yeh coward. Pledging your allegiance to a-"

"I pledge nothing to no one, you vapid, housebroken dog." Wild and animated in seconds, she deliberately spit at the woman's feet and addressed the boy beside her, "I'll pluck your feathers, little birdie. I'll go easy on you for your wise decision in returning my wand to me, but still I'm going to teach you what happens when you betray the blood of the noble and most ancient house of Black and furthermore when you seek to damage a Black's property."

"It's not going to matter when he knows. The precious Blacks are all but in the ground. It's power over purity now. You're a dyin' sort, you Purebloods. And when he sees that you've allied yourself with a Mudblood and you're siding with the Ministry he'll do all he can to kill ya. He doesn't like traitors, not at all, and it seems here that yer committing treason against yer cause." The grin had left her face, but Hermione heard it in her words with the clarity of a mighty zealot who would not deign to quell her ego. It was another batch of fanatics, but the leery discomfort still stuck inside her. Who was this 'he', and worse, why was Bellatrix betraying 'him'? If it was Voldemort... the problem would grow much larger than she had ever imagined.

"You ignorant floor-pisser, there is _no cause any longer. _We lost the War. Do not _ever _venture to speak my surname again. I'll not have it besmirched by a mangy mongrel. Even the Mudblood knows better. I don't give half a damn who your 'he' is, so you'll do far better to stop making veiled threats and just leap straight for my jugular. Else you'll do an excellent job of killing me with boredom."

She did.

In a flash the long-nailed, stocky she-wolf flickered over to Bellatrix and she casually and gracefully shifted aside, striking out with a malicious slice of a wordless jinx that Hermione knew as the _Sectumsempra. _The jet of blood was startling when it splashed across the tree bark, misshapen scarlet in the faint light erupting through the trees. The jinx had nicked the woman's throat and was dangerously close to an artery, the spurt still slathering her hands as she went to press down, awash in the red.

"I'll kill you." She snarled out, and Icarus' eyes were as wide and frightened as the forms around them, so motionless they had become the air. The others would not move unless they were given an order, and the alpha female didn't seem so up to that in that moment.

"Ding-dong, that is wrong." Bellatrix laughed finally, broke her stoic composure to slam into the ground on her knees and yank the woman's head back with a gathered fistful of her hair. The cut was a gaping maw, inevitably painful as blasts of air assaulted it, and Bellatrix forced her nose against the juncture where shoulder met neck and gave a deep, discomforting sniff, "Recall your pack and swear never to mishandle my things again. I promise it. I'll make an unbreakable vow if I have to. And my oath will be that once you die I will not flay every loathsome dog here and make a few dozen wolf-pelt rugs to lie on in front of my cozy fireplace. Would be such a shame to know in death you failed your little community."

"I can assure you that if you mean- any harm to us, we will respond in kind. But I, for one, would much rather recognize this situation as at a crossroads and choose the path that is a bit tidier." Hermione glanced down at the stirring form of their alpha male, slamming an unforgiving _Stupefy _to allow for unconsciousness once more. She did not need for regrouping, and this was a clear pack mentality. Without a leader they did not have order. Without hours to establish a deputized system or transition into place a new one, they were ruled only by a chaotic confusion. And if Hermione chose to start the cogs spinning she could very well set into motion a figurative cannibalism that might make for a sturdier situation.

"On second thought, my mind changed!" There went that thought. Too late. Bellatrix the plan-destroyer. Hermione had all but rolled her eyes. The mania seemed to creep back, but with it came the typical behavior. If Bellatrix could reel to the edge the predictability returned, and she knew tremendously what to expect when Bellatrix chose to favor the so-called unexpected. She flicked her wand roughly across the wound, barked a sloppy healing charm that sealed the glistening red poorly and did enough of a job to stymy the excessive bleeding. "I want you to tell this 'him' that Bellatrix Black doesn't accept indirect death threats because _those are the threats of a coward. _I don't associate with cowards, and now he has earned a treatment well-deserved. When I meet this boy, and I say boy because a man would not send a woman to relay his message, I'll take a finger for each time I have been personally offended by his timidity. As of right now, I count three fingers."

"You let us alone, then. You owe her a debt." For a moment, Hermione Granger tried to think herself some sort of ambassador. She tried to imagine there was a peace to be kept, though it had been broken in this hostile scramble, but here she was trying to salvage the scraps clawed from the whole. "And in return I ask only an elaboration on Voldemort's resurrection, and how the possibility is even there."

Bellatrix's head snapped around in warning. Hermione could see the breath held in her chest like her flesh and ribcage were transparent, waiting to escape once the anger would leave. It was the name that had almost threw her into the frenzy, and it was the name Hermione had to remind herself not to mention again, if she could help it.

"The Dark Lord is dead." Icarus was the one to speak, and the woman on the ground glared defiantly up at Bellatrix with a tightly clenched jaw and a thickly set brow. "He is, really. But those ideas are still alive and someone else's taken 'em up. Someone who's promised us things but we don't really know who he is. It isn't the Dark Lord, it isn't."

"I've no reason to trust a word from you, traitorous coward." Bellatrix snapped, and immediately pointed her wand at him, causing Hermione to swiftly jerk to keep the woman on the ground under wand-point. "Hiding under a pathetic guise._ Disgusting. _You've filled your purpose and answered a question and you'll keep your tongue in your mouth or I'll slice it out to cook, well-garnished. I have eaten stranger."

"Back off." The she-wolf on the ground barked, twitching a shoulder. "Stand down and let 'em free."

Icarus' dark eyes dropped in shame and she spoke quietly, her voice dripping with disdain and the overtones of her previously restrained Scottish brogue, "Not you. You're no son of mine. Don't ever let me see yeh again. I'll kill yeh before them."

Bellatrix patted the woman on the cheek, kneeling before the life she had nearly drained and then chosen to save. She squished her face together between those spindly fingers, turning it roughly to their still unconscious leader. "I would be careful of that. Righteous concussion, and this length of unconsciousness makes it rather severe. _Nasty, nasty. _Hope I haven't killed your other mangy pack-leader."

She flounced off cheerfully, and the small cluster of haggard werewolves parted to let her free with a bitter grumble that rose like a growl. Hermione and Icarus followed right behind, the Animagus' head hung in shame.

* * *

"What's your name?" Hermione asked as they trudged from the woods. With a slow, burdened gait, they found the final shreds of light before the sun was beginning to set. Bellatrix was dusted lightly with bloodied scrapes and scratches, and if anyone had not known better they would assume her hair was purposefully crowned with twigs and a menagerie of shrubbery. She didn't seem to care, what with the confident way she dug her heels into the dirt with every step as though each stride claimed this her land. In truth, there was a nagging twinge in Hermione's ankle. Slipping up in the midst of that frenzy had tweaked a tendon, she assumed, but it wasn't anything a warm bath and a very comfortable rest wouldn't repair.

"I don't see why I should tell y-you, Mudblood." The owl-boy stuttered.

"It's rude to insult the half Muggle-filth whose verbal manipulation saved your life. You're indebted, and enslaved, on strict terms. _I_ was going to throw you to the _wolves." _Bellatrix threw her head back in delight, cackling shrilly into the air. It was tiredly halfhearted, and she twisted her wand about cheerfully in her hands as she walked. "Answer her question. There's no pride to allot insults. Here, my word is law. You haven't a mother to suckle from any longer. It's in your best interests to cozy up with your new ally."

"Kerk MacDonald." He gulped, and only because the idea of hierarchy was one he felt intimately acquainted with, and if Bellatrix did not reek of alpha he did not know who did. She had made such neat work of his mother, after all, and that shook his foundation to the core.

_"Bo-ring." _Bellatrix sing-songed, and flung open the front door roughly. The Siamese, Cat, mewled from beneath the couch and shyly emerged to rub against Bellatrix's ankles in a regarding display of affection. She kneaded the feline's fur once, just between the ears, and then noisily plopped herself at the kitchen table as she tore her boots off.

Hermione clicked the door closed, irritated with Bellatrix's disregard for their shared space, and slid over to the couch to sit, patting the cushion beside her. In utter discomfort the boy, so-Christened Kerk in her mind, chose to slide over and leave the space between them empty. In the home's lights he was younger than he had looked before. Perhaps eighteen or so, but still there was a slippery fear in his eyes. Like the fright was a thick, inky goo that coated constantly and tugged him under into its muck. It was the wary stare of someone who frequently expected the startle of a loud noise, and instead built the terror of it so tall that it was an unfathomable tower of expectation and only a molehill of reality.

"We won't be turning you in to the Ministry." Hermione said calmly. Bellatrix paused, whirling on the kitchen chair with a sudden jerk that sent the cat scurrying.

"That mongrel conspired to have us killed!" She shouted, tore her long, jagged nails in frustration along the table's wooden surface. It was already decorated in her marks like some kind of prison tally.

"As you have done to me more times than I can count on all the fingers and toes of each of us present!" Hermione spat angrily, and flashed a look so predatory it seemed foreign, borrowed, on her face, "He cooperated with us, just as you have promised to do with me, and he is deserving of the same just treatment I pushed to award you."

"You are a fucking naive child, and I hope he shreds your Muddy vocal cords apart with his talons while you sleep so you are deservingly robbed of your adolescent promises." She was up in a flash. The air reeked of stale confrontation and Kerk was frozen when Bellatrix stalked over rapidly, her feet light as a dancer's. Hermione was torn up from the sofa by the wrist, roughly jostled, "Stupid little Muddykins. Do you think your pardon is going to endear him to us? I could have sworn I was just forcefully educated on how the systems works when one commits crimes against a magical being."

"If you turn him in I'll declare every ounce of hostility you have displayed toward me. He's a child, Bellatrix."

"We were all _children _when we committed unspeakable acts!" She roared, tipped her face low enough that she pressed against the other woman's forehead, "There isn't such a thing as 'children' anymore!"

"There is." Hermione ground out, her teeth gritted, her eyes flicking quickly to the floor. "There is and he hasn't got anywhere to go."

That black gaze sunk the boy in like quicksand. He had already gone ashen pale, and Bellatrix released Hermione's wrist with an uncaring shove. She sneered beneath the weight of unruly curls and the still-haggard countenance adopted from their little outing. When Bellatrix managed to mold her mouth around the desire for words, Kerk looked away in nothing but chilly terror and she lightened her tone a few octaves, hitting the childish sing-song everyone knew was her most dangerous indicator, "Just because you've joined the orphan's club doesn't mean you'll be getting an ounce of special treatment from me. Until we assess just what to do with you I want you to recollect that this is my den and you're a bloody putrid stain with the audacity to spot. Should you sink into permanence, I'll scrub you out rather evenly. And should you behave in a way I find offensive, I reserve the right to jump to a conclusion that would prove poor for your health. Thank this brave idiot. She's sticking her neck out for you, filth."

Truth be told, not even gratitude could shatter his guilt.


	18. It Was Just How You Looked in the Light

Hey, guys! It's been awhile since I reminded you I don't own any of this. Also, my Tumblr url, if you guys want to follow updates and previews I sometimes sneak in, is this- - is- -my- -design (no spaces in between, two dashes after each word). Thanks, and I hope you're enjoying! I know I am.

* * *

McGonagall did not approve. Worse, she had half blamed the situation on Hermione, insistent that she could not fathom how one girl was constantly surrounded by trouble. Bellatrix lounged lazily with Cat purring on her lap, interjecting casually here and there that trouble was simple when all you did was look for it. The acting Headmistress shot her an acidic glare and she shrugged deliberately, sticking her tongue out at McGonagall when she peered into the bottom of her teacup as though it spoke universal secrets. In reality she had just grown so irate and concerned with Hermione Granger's behavior that she had to recollect her calm before it slithered away and out the open window. For the two parents Hermione had lost, McGonagall filled the empty slots with a certain flair.

As promised, Kerk MacDonald was not imprisoned in Azkaban. For his act of bravery within the forest and for his willingness to comply about the Wizarding World's newest threat, Kerk was settled with an occupation in the town Bellatrix and Hermione resided in. Always studious in spite of an upbringing slathered perpetually in violence and physicality, it could not be overlooked that at eighteen the boy was an Animagus. No, its remarkable nature had kept him on the Ministry's radar and he worked and lived above a dusty old bookshop. Aurors haunted the woods outside Bellatrix and Hermione's home at practically all times, but the massive pack of werewolves was nowhere to be found. They were certainly not gone, but at least they were not howling at the moon in the unlikely duo's backyard.

Harry was more frequent a writer than Ron. She supposed she could not blame him. In the same situation she might have been just as angry, but it was the distance of the letters that bothered her. Their strange and halfway impersonal tones, polite, lifeless. Like this stage in her life had transformed Hermione Granger into a woman who was a foreigner and no longer a best friend. Like she had become a stranger.

It was bad when even Bellatrix noticed her behavior.

"Stop moping, Muddy." Bellatrix would bark, and hurl Cat at her as though demanding the animal provide the comfort she refused to. "All of your friends are ugly anyway."

Winter turned to Spring and Spring turned to Summer and the lull was more than either of them had gotten used to. The intricacies of getting around Bellatrix's hang ups were a skill Hermione had managed. They made up new spells to fill her boredom and some were particularly brutal to quell her salivating need for violence. Bellatrix sometimes killed deer and they ate venison and occasionally rabbit, which Hermione often protested to loudly. Hermione mastered a prototype invisibility spell that took cloaking charms and illusionary concepts and a bit of a glamor, all to maintain a sense of privacy when she felt it much needed. They worked well together when tempers did not run high. They quipped and talked and sometimes the conversations were halfway to civil until the veil around Bellatrix fell again, the supremacist armor she seemed so reluctant to remove unscathed, and the wit turned only to venomous jibes. Hermione rarely argued because she had learned complacency or, rather, she had learned that it saved her a long argument and a throttling she had become accustomed to but all the same did not prefer.

It was often that Hermione had to cease comparisons in her head, because sometimes she could imagine Bellatrix grander than intended, nestled in a teetering daydream on the wings of fancy. Some days she reminded Hermione of Heathcliff of Wuthering Heights after he had returned from rejection and made his fortune. His countenance was stormy, gloomy, and incontestably violent. He was cruel as he was clever, darkly, sleekly attractive, like someone it was easy to be ashamed of. She had read too much in her life. Hermione found that conclusion with particular ease. Bellatrix was cruel and irritably intelligent and begrudgingly poetic and all the same she was raging, riotous insanity.

In the middle of Wuthering Heights, in fact, was when the knock at the door came.

* * *

Bellatrix Black had cackled truthfully only four times in her life.

She laughed often. It just felt right. Laughter was perfect. It was patronizing, mocking, gleeful, honest, jesting, genuine, it even expressed outrage. Laughter, when applied right, was more perfect than a well-placed insult.

Her first honest gout of giggles had been at age eleven, when she had jinxed a young Gryffindor into burping up slugs uncontrollably. Next up had been in disbelief when she heard Dromeda was shagging the Mudblood, Ted Tonks. Bellatrix had taken it for a hardy jest, as the most tense joke one could bring up in the Black household was an affinity for the genetically murky. Third she remembered in a freeing fashion, cheerfully skipping the Weasley's property after killing her canine cousin, chanting 'I KILLED SIRIUS BLACK!' as loud as she possibly could. It felt thrilling, she remembered, breathless and ecstatic. It felt powerful. But here, with old Minnie McGonagall and King-Nothing Shacklebolt, here she felt the fourth time present itself as she cackled until she was red in the face.

Hermione slid her a disapproving glance but did nothing about it, because nothing could be done. The sound bounced off the walls, high and thin and unparalleled, and she leaned in with her hands planted firmly on her thighs, "Minister, are you quite sure this idea is- well, sound? I don't mean to sound like I'm questioning your judgment, but this is even bolder than what we've already got going on."

"You will both have to interview for the jobs just like everyone else does, but this is important work I'm asking of you." Hermione admired Kingsley, and mostly admired how he could speak authoritatively while still managing to ignore Bellatrix's attitude. "We cannot afford to let something else occur after the Wizarding World is still reeling from the last War. And to work from the inside would be best. You'll have tools at your disposal you wouldn't have otherwise, and Madame Black can find another fashion to reestablish herself. You are both still within our regulation and she is still under your supervision, Miss Granger, but this plan has to have phases and perhaps she can put her talents to good use. Perhaps it is time we start finding a way to set you both on paths that will contribute. Isn't that why you took on this task in the first place?"

Bellatrix snorted, so loudly it sent Cat streaking from her lap, and wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands as she trembled still from the raucous giggles, "Oh, Kingums, you slay me! Right, right, Bellatrix Black, notorious Muggle-hating murderer, is that what they'll scrawl out on my office door? I suppose I'll have lovely social outings, too. We'll all meander down to the Hogshead for drinks after work, drone tiredly about our boring little jobs, our cardboard-box little lives. When I have birthdays, they'll certainly have my favorite cake in my favorite flavor. Oh, seriously outdone yourself, Shacklebolt, you are _hysterical." _

The expression on Minerva McGonagall's face was a poorly veiled sort of absolute distaste. She raised both her eyebrows, her mouth closing into a tight, straight line, and struggled not to just smack that mighty sureness from Bellatrix's face, "You'd do well not to patronize the Minister, Black. He happens to be giving you an opportunity you have no right to be getting."

"You got my name right that time, Minnie. Maybe you aren't going senile after all."

_"Bellatrix." _Much to everyone's surprise, it was not McGonagall who had bitten back. In a voice much more heated than any of them had ever heard before, the single personal pronoun had come straight from Hermione's lips. Her hands had balled into trembling fists. When she looked to Kingsley again there was a fire in her eyes that could not be smothered, and though she was trying to speak calmly, rationally, Bellatrix had robbed her of that polite quiet and replaced it wholeheartedly with a passionate anger she often could not turn off once it was on, "Yes, Minister, we will gladly interview for positions in the Care for Magical Creatures department. Thank you very much for your consideration."

For a moment it seemed as if Bellatrix had legitimately gnashed her teeth, leaning back with a bored roll of her eyes. Her entire attitude dissipated into a thick, stormy mood. _"Bollocks," _was all she muttered under her breath as McGonagall and Kingsley looked on, somewhere between worried and stunned.

* * *

Hermione had been droning at the piano for hours, a book set before her in the stead of sheet music. Bellatrix had not spoken a word to her since their technical caretakers had left, and it had ceased to irk Hermione that she could connect so well with the most vile witch she knew. She fell easily into Bellatrix's way of life more and more as of late. She had undermined the other woman in front of two superiors, an action that most would be sliced in half for. But Hermione was still whole, very much so, and plinking out agonizingly off-key pieces at their piano.

It wasn't really her fault. She was very absorbed in _The Picture of Dorian Gray _and very distanced from _Fur Elise. _

When the front door swung open it was with a great gust of wind as though summoned by some supernatural force. The thing rebounded (it was noteworthy to mention that there was a jagged crack in the wall growing from where the doorknob had suffered) and slammed shut, shuddering audibly in its foundations. Bellatrix kicked the sharp, heeled boots from her feet and they carelessly thudded on the floor. Hermione did not look up. Eye contact would lock them in a surefire argument, and today was a day of victories won, not broken furniture.

"Shift your gratuitous posterior, Muddy." Granted, it was hard to focus on a novel when you had been hip-checked nearly off the bench by the sturdiest pile of human-composed-wire-hangers you had ever seen. Hermione made a sound of irritation but relinquished to the slide, glancing finally over when two snifters, full of amber liquid, slammed at the top of the piano. She creased her eyebrows in confusion and quickly folded her arms when she was pushed off the keys. "Your great and terrible instrumental prowess made me fret warbling might be soon to follow. I would rather Azkaban again than listen to your thoughtless butchery of something clearly too advanced for you."

"Alcohol?" Was Hermione's question instead, because bringing attention to the insult was about as fruitful as questioning the meaning of life.

"If I'm to retain this proximity to you I shall need a proper buffer between my sober consciousness and my exasperation with your overall self. -Also I feel we could both use some _even ground. _I don't socialize with lightweights."

"This is socializing, then." It was not a question. It was a concrete statement. Creeping satisfaction spread out into the corners of the sentence.

"If you make a production of it it will be single-izing and I'll resume my prior activities." Bellatrix spoke, but she calmly laid her hands across the keys, glancing down at the ivories like there were whispering memories across them. Hermione became aware of the fact that she was trying to remember how to play, observing the keen way those black eyes ticked back and forth. When Bellatrix wasn't looking at her, and she was just looking at the other woman, she could almost see into her past there. "Your composition is not the problem, it is your form. You're too tense. Playing is like bleeding. You relax and it flows. You tense, and it gouts, becomes sloppy."

Hermione Granger sometimes remembered the slur scrawled into her arm. She looked at Bellatrix here and there and recollected how she had managed to forgive what should have been the greatest humiliation of her entire life. But that was just it: it was not a humiliation. She had never felt ashamed of it, had never tried to hide it self- consciously dodge its existence. She _was _a Mudblood. Perhaps she might choose for herself a more tactful pronoun to go by, but the truth of it was that she was, indeed, who she was, and she did not see a reason to feel shame for it. That was the problem. So many went about trying to hide their core selves, their unchangeables, as Hermione had referred to them when she was young. Hers were a part of her she could assimilate or regret, and she was not often for regrets.

The memory was just one that clung to her clothes like cigarette smoke. It wasn't the shame, but there's a stink of fear that can sometimes not be shed, and that certainly was one. Crippling terror, and that absolution- the acceptance of death. When Bellatrix likened it to blood, Hermione likened it to hers, and she found herself distant and shuddering before a hand grasped her wrist tightly and pressed the snifter of firewhiskey into her palm.

"Shake the cobwebs out of your brain and attempt my advice." There was a hypnotic obedience, and Hermione allowed her to apply a soft touch to her spine, just a forcible push, and she felt herself slump into a more relaxed position.

She lifted the glass to her lips and, after a scalding gulp, she began to play.

Next to the piano were two empty glasses, and the sun had gone down long ago. The night tore on and on until it was the early dissipating hours of the morning, shrinking into the single digits, and the entire house was dark with the exception of the single ornate lamp above them both.

When Bellatrix played it was strange and elegant and somehow magnificent. She hunched and toyed like a concert pianist, her long, bony fingers flitting over the keys. She was a moody drunk, dark, stormy, borderline unpleasant, and blatantly uninterested in conversation. But the silence was strangely comfortable. It was not terrifying, and it vibrated with the pleasantries of mutual understanding.

Hermione, on the other hand, who was not a veteran to alcohol the way Bellatrix seemed to be. She'd flushed in the cheeks and glanced on in awe. The entire house hummed with the loud plinks of Greensleeves, and somewhere by her feet Cat was curled up, snoozing in a contented sleep.

"You're quite good at this." Hermione managed. The room was spinning, the edges of her world hazy, and it crept up on her uncomfortably. The fascination had always been there but it was silent, and now it was upfront, and she could touch it. _And she could touch it. _

Bellatrix placed a hand down on the piano bench and used the other to pick up the remainder of her drink, finishing it in a single gulp. It didn't startle her when she felt warmth atop it, and Hermione softly touched at her jaw to turn her face. She went to open her mouth and snarl, snap, irate that she had been interrupted, except even that had been cut off when Hermione roughly pressed her lips to Bellatrix's. Her hand moved, pushed at Bellatrix's thigh, but the other woman caught her wrist forcefully and stopped the movement in its tracks. No, she felt, not her terms, not her concepts, not her moves. No, no, no.

She detached, then, breathy and shuddering, and in the dim dark their silhouettes allowed them only air and smoky light, just small selves in a house full of corners and distant futuristic possibilities.

Bellatrix frowned.

Mostly because it was a brief few seconds until Hermione Granger, full to the brim with searing cinnamon and the burn of bile, threw up. Right in Bellatrix's lap.


	19. I'm in the Grip of a Hurricane

**Rather important author's note: **there's a bit of rape imagery involved here that could be triggering as fuck. I kind of can't avoid it being Hermione characterization. I'm just gonna bold the stuff and if any of you have to flit swiftly over it flit away. If anyone has an issue feel free to contact me directly. Not trying to fuck up anyone's life, but if I have to I'd be happy to write a version of this that would involve less of the whoa there Kat. Anyhow, hope you guys enjoy my- fairly damaging work like it's already trashing my head.

* * *

When Hermione Granger woke it was to a headache so foul that she thought for a moment that she had sustained a concussion and it was still the war. However, upon further thought, this was merely the hangover from hell and she was feeling the after effects of poor decision-making. She finally retracted her entire head from where it was burrowed deeply inside the pillowcase and looked around the room.

It always seemed chilly in their little cottage by the sea, like heat did not touch it. The windows were wide open, so that had to be something to do with it, and as though a higher power had given Hermione a badly desired break the sun was hidden behind a handful of greying clouds. The sky was cushiony alright, filled up with the promise for a blustery day, and leave it to irresponsible Bellatrix to leave all the windows wide open.

Wait.

Why were there windows?

Her room did not have windows.

The floor was littered with paraphernalia. Spell-books and guides to magical creatures, a prominent scattering of texts on the history, art, and importance of wand-making. Drawers were open and askew, but that didn't seem to matter. A suitcase in one corner of the room was partially unzipped and exploding with articles of clothing, all of which varied between black, emerald green, and wine red, every shade dark and somehow mixed with, of course, more black.

The bed sheets underneath her had a higher thread count than every piece of fabric she had ever owned in her life. The pillows beneath her head, of which there were many, smelled like a barely traceable perfume and this strangely earthy scent. Her nightmares were confirmed when the final discovery was made: a long, partially silver, partially black strand of coiled hair nestled into the pillow.

Hermione paled.

She had slept, drunk as Hagrid at Happy Hour when the Hogshead complied to allow him three barrels of whiskey and diminish their wares almost completely, in Bellatrix Black's bed.

She had been raucously intoxicated in Bellatrix Black's bed. She had been terrifically smashed upon the mattress that each night housed the body of Voldemort's former first lieutenant. She had been completely pissed on the sheets where Bellatrix slumbered and sweat and dreamed. And the intimacy of this agonizing situation, the implications it allowed her, made her rather uncomfortable.

"No no no." She muttered to herself, noting in awful horror that when she finally paid attention that the sheets felt cooler than anything else. Because beneath them she was wearing nothing but her underclothes. The headache was suddenly the very least of her concern. She could not have cared less about a migraine. "No _no no no." _

There was an empty glass of water beside the bed- upon inspection, it was not empty, but maintained less than a mouthful- and a small piece of parchment that had clearly been shredded from a larger whole. Scratched in needlessly elegant but borderline unreadable handwriting she could make out the word 'Muddypoo', and her stomach twisted at the humiliating, poorly colored heart beside it. If she had not been nauseous moments ago, now she was willing to throw up everything inside of her to perhaps reverse the flow of time by inside-outing her very organs.

Cat stretched out from beneath the ornate bed skirt, her skinny spine curving upward in a pleasant arc. Hermione only watched as Cat turned her blue eyes to regard her, mewling irritably.

"If only you could talk." Hermione sighed. Cat only yowled again, a bit louder, and strutted out the door with her tail straight up in the air.

* * *

**It had been forty minutes and the mostly closed door was still her worst enemy. The hallway brought to mind an honest terror that barraged her senses. Was Bellatrix waiting to humiliate her? Had she already humiliated her? Worse, had she allowed Bellatrix to humiliate her? It all felt so surreal that the hangover nausea was creeping back again, and some of it tasted like the possibility of losing one's virginity to someone who had been a lifelong enemy. She paled harder and harder with every second, before she was white knuckled and trembling and half sick at the premise. Was this consenting, because neither of them were in any state to consent, sober or intoxicated. She wouldn't have taken the allowance either way- and it mortified her that she could even consider this. **

**Down the list of unreliable, unmerciful, putrid things Bellatrix was, could she consider dubious consent on sexual matters a part of that list?**

**No. She relied on the facts, trying to calm. If Bellatrix had wanted- **_**that **_**(she could not bring herself to use the word) she would have certainly taken it. She took everything she desired. Bellatrix Black was not a kind, patient soul, and she was not the sort to be understanding. She didn't understand half a damn about Hermione in the first place, and while she played by their rules with a shocking obedience Hermione had let out a gratuitous amount of slack. Had the slack been unwise? She remembered Kerk in the forest, his eyes and his particularly set expression, Bellatrix's questionable entrance but loyal finale. And had she been loyal about some things, and disloyal about others? **

**Good god. She had to slow herself down because her heart was pounding in her ears, and she stared long and hard at her own physique. Bellatrix would have been- she gulped, closed her eyes, felt awash with utter sickness- Bellatrix would have been vicious. She never would have been gentle. She would've scratched and bit and clawed, she would've salivated and slobbered and marked. She would've been the definition of **_**fucking **_**if there ever was one. It would have been a power play, not a mutual act at all, but one with someone forcefully willing who had been pushed into the side of understanding. **

**A shiver wracked her spine at the idea and she stopped, forcing clarity as hard as she could. No bites or scratches, no lacerations or bruising. She did not feel particularly tenderized or knocked about, and while the idea in her head was visible she chalked it up to her overactive imagination and not the palpitating terror brought on by the most unholy union she could ever consider. **

"Fuck." The word came finally from her mouth, and it felt consecrated.

_You can fight the Dark Lord, you can look your former tormentor in the face each day and morning, you can win a war as a child soldier, and you can singlehandedly shoulder the responsibility of erasing your parents of your entire life. You can handle one strange situation where you've woken up naked in the sleeping quarters of your former tormentor willingly. _

Hermione Granger stood up from the bed, a look of determination on her face, cocooned herself in the bed sheets that were not hers and marched right out the bedroom door.

* * *

"You vomited directly in my lap."

Her arrival had been met with the most frigid silence possible, and for a moment the hot-headed Hermione inferred that this was the silence of someone punishing their housemate for a wrongdoing. It was unusual when Bellatrix did not insult her when she walked into a room. Typically it was about the bags under he eyes, the nature of her physique, the percentage of cellulite she contained, and her heritage was just the constant cherry on top.

"I- beg your pardon?"

"You assaulted my personal space with your mouth, and then it spewed indelicate dinner onto me."

"I assaulted you-" Hermione placed both her hands on the table, eyebrows shot straight up, the bed sheet falling away until she was back to partially nude and totally aghast, _"I _assaulted _you _with my _mouth _and then I threw up on your clothes."

"Yes, are you deaf? I was conducting myself in a respectable manner until you stopped conducting yourself in a respectable manner and chose to fancy me a moment before doing the opposite of attractive and clearly bumbling yourself into your lightweight inability to hold your liquor."

Her world felt worse than before. Now it was throbbing from how Bellatrix had taken it and shaken it upside-down. _She kissed Bellatrix Black and then up chucked all over her. _Mortified, her head hit the kitchen table. Bellatrix was not a liar. Lying was something people did when they chose to forfeit dignity. And with how forthright Bellatrix was with her attitude, there was no dignity shirked, here.

"We've got job interviews with the muggle-loving Ministry in precisely two hours. You'll want to wear more than your current attire. Unless you're fishing for cleavage compliments. In which case, carry on to the streets of London. And there's no food in the refrigerator. I ate it all because you disrespected my comfort zone and then ruined a very nice dress. We haven't got any time to get something to eat, either, and I flushed all your muggle medications down the toilet because I haven't much concern for your state." Hermione looked up, bleary-eyed and taken aback, and her mouth hung open and reminded her sharply of how it felt dry as a desert. Bellatrix flounced up jauntily from her seat and tousled her long, spindly fingers through Hermione's curly hair, passing by with a small dig and a yank on her way to the staircase. "Best impressions and cheery smiles, pet. No one wants to employ such a grumpy little frowny face."

* * *

"Hermione Granger, is that right?"

The gentleman behind the desk of the most cluttered office she had ever seen was built sturdy as a house and just as large. His suit was grey tweed, but any degree of sophistication it might have brought to mind was offset by his painfully askew tie that did not match his vest or the shirt beneath it. The tie was turquoise, and the shirt was a loud sort of red, and either he had dressed in the dark or chose his clothes through a randomized generator. His right sleeve had been pinned closed, and there was an absence of limb where his arm should have been. Add on his reddish-blonde hair pulled back into a long ponytail, his positively testeorone-driven beard and his thundering Scottish brogue and Gregor Townsend was a character straight out of some odd, fantasy-based children's fiction.

"Yes, sir, it is." Her smiles were small and the lights from his office was burning her retinas out. She wanted for sunglasses so agonizingly she would have given up a firstborn for them. Bellatrix's eyes were, as usual, everywhere but where they should have been, but every few moments she turned her gaze to Hermione with a scrutinizing satisfaction. Her suffering tasted like a delicacy.

"Miss Granger, it's an honour to have you applying for our little department. This isn't exactly anyone's first choice." He had a way of speaking that sounded like pots banged viciously together in the heavens, and tiny flinches kept happening all over Hermione's face. Little eyelash bats, little eyelid shudders, little mouth twitches. He was crawling under her skin and he wasn't even her boss yet. "Your credentials might not be huge, but you are a hero of our time and as Kingsley has told me a tremendous advocate for the rights of our magical animal friends. Lots of House Elf rights enthusiasm. That's plenty reason for you to deserve a space in our system. But what do you feel you want to do, and what do you feel your strongest talent is for this job?"

_I want to throw up on your suit because it's screaming at me. Perhaps I better not. _

Hermione smiled tightly, squinting her eyes, "I know a lot of spells and I'm a neat record-keeper. Order is something of a strong-suit for me. And as for what I want to do, I suppose it's idealistic. I just want to make everything better for as many creatures as I can."

The sound of Bellatrix's eyes rolling was nearly deafening.

"I would say you have a job if you can prove your mettle, Miss Granger. As for Madame Black-" his eyes had been warm and chocolate pudding brown behind his perched spectacles, but right then they hardened, not cruel, but certainly skeptical, "-you are the strangest applicant I've ever gotten by far, and back ten years or something like that I interviewed a part veela part giant who made me question a good lot about myself. Why should we hire you?"

Hermione sunk in her chair. This headache was assaulting her from all sides, and she wasn't ready to have to apologize for her charge's inevitably venomous attitude. It was embarrassing by this point, and she felt like she was supervising a very rude, unruly child. Bellatrix's heavily lidded eyes opened a bit, as if being questioned had pricked her sharply, and she was outraged by such a thorny thing forcing her to deign to a reaction.

"I've got a cat." Bellatrix stated, and both sets of eyes turned to her uncomfortably.

"I suppose that's a good thing-" Gregor started, and Bellatrix cut him off at the pass.

"Right, then, excellent work. When shall I begin my stint as a zombified desk fixture earning less pay over my entire career than I had seen at the age of five?"

Hermione grimaced and braced herself, frightened of the reaction. It had to be coming. This man was immense, and while he seemed nice enough, he also looked like he might have been a temperamental Viking in another life.

"Madame Black, care to elaborate about this cat?"

What? Now she was paying attention, regardless of her throbbing cerebrum. Hermione stared at him for a long time- at his indiscernibly old age and all the weathered little lines on his fairly widened face, put there from either ages of fieldwork or several enthused smiles. It made her feel confused, and she had stopped to hold her own breath covertly.

"We've got a cat. We have had her for upwards of a year or so now. I'm poor with dates. I have treated this cat with the utmost consideration, and many would say I have been far kinder to this cat than I have been to my housemate at all. I have never assaulted nor physically injured this cat in a way that bespoke my hostile attitude. Which, by the way, is something I have done to nearly everyone I have met- extended myself in a hostile or vicious way- within a matter of a usual hour or two. This cat, however, has survived almost a year without injury or even threat."

"And because of this cat you feel equipped for this?" But there was a casual mirth in Gregor's tone. Now, it had become a strange game, and Hermione slipped lower and lower in the chair. This made no sense anymore. Everything was upside-down. And she so badly wanted to sleep. And to eat. _Oh god to eat. _

"Have I been hostile to you within this interview?" Bellatrix shot, fingers curling inward, posture suddenly rigid.

"Yes." He answered, and sat up equally as tall. He extended an arm, and his hand was enormous, the size of a Christmas ham. Hermione stared at it as though this was the twilight zone and the words out of his mouth fell across her slowly, "And it's only been maybe ten minutes. If you can apply your cat attitude toward this line of work, you'll fit right in."

Bellatrix shook his hand, which amazed Hermione, but not without attempting to squeeze the life out of it first.

"Miss Granger," he let go, clenching his fingers tightly together, shaking them vigorously. They were half numb after Bellatrix had clearly chosen to attempt shattering every bit of his hand. "May I speak with you privately a minute?"

"No." Bellatrix snapped immediately, every inch the brat who was angry to be excluded from the discussion.

"I promise I have to borrow her for only a minute, if you'd please wait outside my office, Madame Black."

"I could care less how long you must 'borrow' her for. If there's half a peep from within this room I find myself uncomfortable with I will see to it that your left armed situation mimics your unfortunate right armed one, you-"

"It's alright." Hermione grumbled angrily, and watched Bellatrix stalk to the office door and knock over an entire week's worth of paperwork purposefully on her way there. Patience, Hermione reminded herself, patience and calm.

"I could care less about you, Muddy. You are my freedom. If you are fool enough to trust this blithering, prehistoric Scot then do so at your own discretion, but not with my situation at risk. Remember that." The office door slammed so largely that the blinds pitched forward and fell in a pile to the floor, leaving only the cut of Bellatrix's figure and that cascade of explosive curls clearly in sight.

"I just wanted to remind you, lass, that she's your responsibility and ask if there was anything else I could do for you." He pulled his glasses from his face and pocketed them in one fluid motion, surprisingly adept for a man with only one arm to speak of.

"No. Alright. This is too simple." Hermione's hand touched at her wand inside the pocket of her black, straight-legged pants beneath her white peasant blouse, the thing holstered like a gun. And she let up when his expression seemed suddenly hurt, like she had taken a puppy and punted it across a clear day right before his eyes.

"Kingsley and I are old friends. I went to Hogwarts with Madame Black, and he asked me if I would be willing to participate in this plan. It's a good one, I'll give you that, Miss Granger. There's a lot of things about this world that have needed changing for a good long time. We didn't win a war to keep everything the same. And I remember her. I've lost a lot of my marbles, but I remember her. She was whip-smart and good with things that didn't require a lot of socializing, and maybe she's a good fit here. I'm on your side, Miss. Kingsley's judgment is sound and airtight. There's been a lot happening lately- we can't know yet for sure, but it isn't safe, and you've got to keep an eye on her."

"You know, Mister Townsend, I have been told that so many times in these few months that I am beginning to question when I became a parent."

"What you're doing is something you should be proud of, lass. It's centuries sometimes before somebody changes something that's wrong, and makes a tough choice for the better of everybody, but here you are. You both start a week from today." She felt rather sad, she thought, finally letting her guard down- this man made her miss her father who, granted, was never his size, but who often spoke to her as though she'd be the one person to change the entire world. "There's things afoot, Miss Granger, but you're not in them by yourself, and I mean that even with that pure lunatic you've taken on. I don't mean offense by it, but she's made a bigger mess of my office than I meself did in a year, and that takes insanity."

It was reassuring, she felt, to have someone finally not end a conversation with their obvious reluctance to be involved. It was refreshing that in her sympathetic attitude she was not alone. It was comforting that forgiveness was not exclusively her corner of the market.

"Thank you, Mister Townsend." Hermione smiled, and in spite of her splitting migraine it was not insincere.


	20. Hold the Wheel and Drive

"We should talk about it."

She kept trying to replay the moment but it had been lost in the annals of a drunken haze. Dead in the water, that was how she felt. The sunlight assaulted her when she got back to their little town and the clamoring of unnecessarily loud children playing on this gruesome-turned-gorgeous day assaulted her senses. It felt like a sleight, a punishment. She had done something she shouldn't have and now even the sun was screaming at her.

Bellatrix muted a cackle inside her mouth, let it rattle around behind her teeth, and somehow transformed it into a chuckle, "Swift to apply significance to any old thing. Little girl in love."

"I beg your pardon, you- you- _you."_

It was in Bellatrix's nature to antagonize. She prodded, sometimes too hard, and poked vigorously. When she could not be innately violent she had found a more comfortable niche- irritation. And sometimes irritation was several times worse than violence. Violence could be braced through. With tense muscles and gnashing teeth and a clear mind, a person could shut down pain. She knew. She had become an expert at it throughout her life. But irritation? Irritation happened when one wasn't prepared, at their worst. It was a nagging rash suddenly apparent on an achy morning. A dreadful stub of the toe in a mood most foul. Irritation was supreme and when she could no longer relish agony the same as when she had run rampant, annoyance had become her most treasured pastime.

The outdoor cafe once the site of Bellatrix's 'incident' was suddenly within range. Neither had realized how quickly they had been walking, but Bellatrix caught immediate sight of a table just abandoned and decided this was now her territory.

"I gladly bestow my pardon." Bellatrix smirked, and purposefully swept a teacup on the tabletop left absent to watch it shatter on the cobblestone. Hermione's nauseated cringe was enough. "Earl grey and a blueberry scone. And one of those little chocolate graham crackers. I do love those."

Of course, she hadn't expected Hermione would throw a fistful of coins at her and huff, "Then you can get them yourself, you horrid beast!"

For long moments it was quiet, and being that only a half an hour or so ago the downpour had been suitably torrential the streets were still fairly empty. Couple that with the amount of people working and it was blessed. No one around but exuberant children and wildlife to see Bellatrix Black told exactly where she could shove it by Hermione Granger. The woman sat stock still as the sickles and knuts clattered to the noisy tabletop and settled, that look on her face that left everything blank except the wide, terrible black of her unbearably dark eyes. They were always this strange sort of hazy, like she was innocently empty until thought and consideration filled her up.

A brief few months ago Hermione would have cowered. She would have been sorry. She would have taken it back. Here she felt no need.

Bellatrix leaned in languidly across the small table, and came almost nose to nose with the other woman, searched her pale brown eyes for any trace of fear. When she found none her own eyes half-lidded lazily and her mouth began to move as if each word was delectable, "How revolting passion must be to you. You of logical, sound mind and unbearable countenance. You, Mudblood, of iron resolve. How disgusting impulse, how hideous involuntary reaction. And how utterly putrid it must have been for you to find you had been the naughty one. No, Bellatrix was a good girl, Bellatrix was behaved. You melted in my palm like a sticky ice cream cone. Had I wanted you I could have had you easily. But it was not I who wanted and how that must wound your lion's heart. I have always tried to understand just what fundamental trait your kind lacks and now I see it. It's courage. You have the nerve and the bollocks to face me each day but you haven't them to face yourself. So don't take your pathetic distaste of your own shortcomings out on me."

She had expected the violence but it did not come. When she peered into Bellatrix's sleeve for a moment she still saw the gratuitously curved wand poking out, but could have sworn she had felt its threat jammed against her knee. The words were hostile enough to slice her deep and like she was nervous Hermione peered about. She awaited the pain. But even as Bellatrix stood from the chair the pain did not come.

And why wasn't she hurting her?

Hermione's lips formed an involuntary 'what?' but Bellatrix only shot a scathing glance her way, one that crept up and down her arms, and she said simply, "Sometimes someone hurts themselves far more than anyone else can. I'll revel in that."

Hermione Granger felt speechless, flustered, and angry. And in spite of Bellatrix's expected cruelty, to some degree she felt wrong.

* * *

Hermione did not have tea. She had no scones. No tiny, adorable chocolate graham crackers. She wanted nothing after Bellatrix Black had so cruelly thrown her into perspective and left her there with an ache in the bottom of her stomach.

Eventually they found themselves at the bookshop because it appeared Bellatrix was out of reading material, and no matter how badly Hermione wanted to go home and stow away beneath her blankets in shame forever Bellatrix deserved a gift for achieving the impossible and landing a respectable career. The bell above the door jingled and immediately a pair of eyes dark as flint flickered upward, imbued with the panic of decades too strangely present in such a young boy. Kerk softened when he recognized the two, and managed a tight-lipped grin that looked like a grimace and a "hello" as he continued stocking dusty shelves of books.

"Good afternoon, hoot-hoot." Bellatrix quipped breezily, and wandered immediately away to begin a quest for something even remotely interesting.

"She's been in a mood all morning." Hermione sighed, and gave the boy a once-over. It felt awkwardly strange to know this person had been an owl living in their home for months, and she had stroked his feathers and fed him what owls ate and often had to keep Bellatrix from knocking the cage over in her usual frustrations.

"She's been in a bloody mood all life." He managed, the tip of his nose brushing his lip as he pained his mouth for a burdensome smile.

"Not inaccurate. How is this dusty museum of stability?"

"Considerably better than I'm used to."

"Then I suppose I have done something right." But no matter how she thought about it, it made her sad. Had she orphaned this boy? And did the tenuous connection between them feel even remotely stable? She was too logical for this, but the opportunity tasted right. Their parents were both out in the world, but they could accept neither of them again. "And how are you... on your own?"

"Books." It was the only word he said. In truth, it was the only word he cared about. And for a second the glance around brought to him a sense of relaxation he often felt only surrounded by academics. Kerk had been a solitary boy and he was shaping into a solitary man, comforted by dusty pages and yellowed parchment. This kind of civility was a culture shock, he would have no bones about that, but finally he could do something he had always wanted without being the butt of everyone's joke—he could really learn. "Acclimating, I think."

"I'm glad." Hermione said, but peered distantly to the back of the store where Bellatrix was whipping through pages loudly and folding some in the corners. Hermione had never assumed there was a way a person could read noisily. "Please excuse me a moment, Kerk."

He understood all too well. Honestly, he was glad for the distraction. He still didn't much like talking to people at all.

"What are you doing?"

Bellatrix didn't stop. Turned another page, gazed into it as though it was entrancing, like she was staring deeply into the picture of Dorian bloody Gray, and then turned down the corner. "I dog-ear the pages I prefer."

Hermione slid against the shelf beside her, leaning against it to crane her neck and glance at the abundance of small words amassed about the page. She had to squint to see them, but by now her headache had dulled to an impatient throb and it made literature a bit more tolerable.

"_Does the Wand Make the Wizard? A Study of Wandlore."_ Not much for personal book space, Hermione had leaned right in to stare at the top of the page, only backing away when Bellatrix, like a darkening vulture repulsed by a living thing, scowled down at her. "Is this what you'd like?"

"This, _Wand Cores and Where to Find Them, Wand Wood Interpretations_, and that hopeless old tome on the countertop about potion making that seems to have been collecting dust since the dawn of time. Go on, mummy, presents." She haplessly tossed the pile into Hermione's arms, which she promptly dropped on her feet as Bellatrix flounced away and out the door without so much as a hitch.

"Horrid." Hermione sighed.

"Bellatrix." Kerk corrected quietly.

* * *

"You know, it's rubbish just letting this go."

"And if you're going to continue to treat it like a schoolgirl crush that is precisely what we're going to do."

"We have got to address it."

Hermione had grown exhausted of letting it eat at her. It wasn't acceptable anymore, but she refused to admit the guilt. Guilt was a foreign sensation because as far as she was concerned she was always right. Even when she was wrong.

"Promise me that was all it was. And if it was, which I will assume, why did I wind up in your bed?"

"Because I was bloody pissed and you vomited in yours. I suppose I should have told you that this morning. Oops. Trivial. Anyway, on my honour as a Black it was no more than that. What do you take me for, that flea bitten dog-beast Greyback? There is nothing to discuss here."

"... I vomited in my bed."

Hermione stared in slow, suspended horror at the door upstairs, imagining with great terror the smell within. Of course Bellatrix had said nothing.

"When a girl can't hold their liquor perhaps she should not gulp enthusiastically." She watched Hermione as the girl stood in pessimistic disbelief of how this many terrible things could happen in a span of two days. It was written on her face: Hermione could not process this much bad luck. "You had best clean it up and get to bed, then. I will feed Cat."

And that was something Bellatrix had never offered to do before.

Hermione was too tired for these mind games.

"Right." She muttered, feeling for the banister as she walked upstairs, vaguely unsteady, winded beyond measure. The odorous assault hit her nostrils once she opened her bedroom door and, gagging, Hermione murmured, "I suppose it serves me right."

This did not feel like nothing to talk about.


	21. My Sense of Fear is Running Thin

Breakfast was full of the tense discomfort Hermione had not yet acclimated to. She expected the anger, she braced herself for the rudeness, she even understood the occasional bouts of furiously physical rage because she had almost begun to think like Bellatrix, but the awkwardness was worse than all of it. She did not know what it said about her, but she preferred the violence. At least it was predictable.

"Do you much like Wandlore?" Hermione asked, eying the stack of books (which she badly wanted to organize from largest at the bottom to smallest at the top) that had been haphazardly leaning atop their sitting room table. She had burnt the toast and the eggs were a bit runny, but she was still frazzled. She had vomited in her own bed and Bellatrix was acting unfailingly nice. And she had been walking about uncomfortably searching for the land-mine the older woman had to have planted somewhere.

"It was once offered as an elective I chose to participate in. I suppose the interest stuck. I always thought of it as divination for those with common sense and a level mind. There is far more to be told about a witch or wizard through their chosen wand than a great lump of leaves in the bottom of a teacup or a rubbish crystal ball. I've got a proclivity for it."

"Did you ever- pursue an apprenticeship?"

"Gregorovitch's wands are ugly, crude, haphazard chunks of woodwork. Ollivander is a superstitious coward who blanched at my very wand-choosing and chose to lecture me on the allegiance of my wand-wood and its inclinations. He tittered a bit, and there was no doubt he was bloody proud of a good match, but I think somehow the old codger thought I might kill him when the chance arose. You will understand why I did not pursue when the two most prominent so-called innovators had fallen so short of worthy."

"Ollivander was a miraculous wand-maker." It was somewhat like foot-in-mouth syndrome, but without anyone around to tell Hermione about it she would just keep aggressively doing it. And since Bellatrix suffered from the same tactless illness, the two never seemed to note a blessed touch of it in the other. "And I wouldn't call someone who had been tortured to such lengths a coward for doing whatever possible to make the pain stop."

"You would say that. Hermione Granger, the Gryffindor I never much understood." The toast had grown tiresome for Bellatrix. It had been, at first, a courtesy wherein she scraped off the little blackened crumbles and ate around them with a few tolerable smears of jam. But now she was getting irate with the conversation, and with each passing moment the breakfast seemed inedible. "Being a coward yourself it must be simple to relate. Wouldn't you say?"

A cheeky smile crossed Bellatrix's face easily, like sand slipping through fingers, and she waited only a partial second before the other woman turned an impressive pink and clutched her butter knife with hostile intent. Yes, Bellatrix wanted it. Badly. She wanted that bubbling hostility. She could feel it. She was waiting for it with the impatience of a child promised ice cream. The idea of twisting that wrist and wrenching Hermione against her coolly, the totality of making her _bloody fucking terrified_, yes, that was worth the wait.

But no lash out. No. Hermione put the knife down and Bellatrix pouted visibly, her fists tightening in her lap as she sucked in a breath. No outlet. She just wanted to play a game.

"It's very well ironic that it is you with the nerve to call me a coward when you seem to forget that it was you who I managed my greatest moment of courage against. You, Bellatrix Black, who tested my best mettle and allowed me to realize it was good enough." She dropped her arm to the table, the scar still written across it in Bellatrix's childish handwriting, that haphazard chunk of clumsy lettering.

"You screamed like a child." Bellatrix purred calmly, gently walked her fingers across the tabletop until they prodded Hermione's knuckles. She softly rubbed her fingertips over that hand until she could caress the faint scar, tickling at it playfully. She languidly tilted her head to one side, took in the sight of her delightful handiwork so prettily engraved. However, Hermione refused to allow the satisfaction and she shifted in one swift motion, grabbed at Bellatrix's wrist with a viper-quick conviction.

"And I don't suppose you considered I was but a child." And there was something in Hermione in that moment. If she could have given it a name it would have been adaptation, the way a new alpha male in a pride of lions systematically and harshly tosses out the other males to maintain his hard-earned post, the way he learns to be vicious to stay on top. She had adapted better than she would have ever expected, and for a moment, sometimes, she swore it was just a mirrored gaze in Bellatrix staring back at her. "And I'm willing to bet in Azkaban you screamed like a grown woman."

_"Vous détestable petite chienne sale."_ Bellatrix growled calmly, but she was trembling so hard, in fact, that she did not have the presence of mind to tear her hand away. For a moment she only shook in Hermione's grip until the world filtered back into focus, and she had seemed so far detached from it that her mouth moved as though it did not know it had just spoken words. She ripped free, made sure to tear at Hermione with those nails, and very casually she murmured, "Go to hell, Mudblood."

The moment had been such a strange lapse in the usual that Hermione did not even react. Not even when both their plates flew violently across the room and shattered into shards of glass, nor when the leftovers from her culinary journey flipped into her lap. Something else hopelessly vulgar was howled at her, but between the sound of her fragmenting goodness and Bellatrix's well spoken and strangely lapsed French, Hermione could think about nothing but how removed from the situation she had become and how sometimes, mentally, Bellatrix seemed to remove her own self from the situation altogether.

"Damn it." She said finally, when it occurred to her there were gooey egg bits leaking down her favorite Calvin and Hobbes pajama pants.

* * *

They had teetered on the edge of a civil conversation and then it had gone up in smoke in ways Hermione could never have measured. Every time she thought she was a step ahead she was actually several steps behind and Bellatrix was flouncing about before her into the sunset. She had tried and then the brick wall of unkindness had shot up from the ground before her very eyes.

And it made her angriest that Bellatrix seemed the most capable of making her downright ugly.

"You- can't work in- in that."

She admittedly could not remove her stare from it. The tight, black dress, the rather gratuitous slit at the thigh, the cleavage cut only faintly covered with a sheen of lacy pattern. The length of her only slightly heeled though abominably high leather boots. Bellatrix did not feel concerned with the nature of those around her, nor their appropriation for her outfit.

"You'll do well to suggest to me and not talk _at_ me." Bellatrix said, and still Hermione found herself wondering if she ever brushed that hair at any moment in her life, or if that was just a distant childhood memory. "If that oafish bear knows a thing he will put me far from the rest of his incompetent staff. Anyone who finds my wardrobe problematic can issue a formal complaint to my proficiency in offensive hexes."

And this time there wasn't a joke to it. It wasn't a tease, not as Bellatrix stroked a hand alongside Cat's back and hid whatever expression possible behind an unruly waterfall of curls, "Unless by anyone finding it problematic the truth of what I am looking for is 'you'."

"It's positively indecent!" Hermione huffed.

And Bellatrix, whose mood was as erratic as it was unreadable, just said, "And why are you looking?"

* * *

"Alright. You've got your own offices. It's a bigger department then it is staffed, so there are choices. Keep in mind a few are dusty and-"

"By a few he surely means they all are." Bellatrix added in casually, and the office, Hermione noticed, was curiously void of personnel. The desks were absent and the chairs were empty and there was a silence in the air she identified as long-standing.

"You've seen through my disguise, lass." Gregor quipped, his laugh a bark, more of a shout, and in spite of this Bellatrix did not feel a single need to accompany the humor. Her mood had not lifted and it remained, instead, the very sort of disdainful Hermione tried so hard to avoid. She had summoned the oncoming storm and it was rolling in, the black clouds, waiting for the thunderous bang that often accompanied the thick downpour.

"If by disguise you mean 'flimsy cellophane' then I suppose I have." She wandered into a room and slammed the door shut, leaving Hermione and Gregor to hang back and stare as the blinds on the window within shuddered mightily. Evidently Bellatrix had made her choice and that was just fine.

"So are we not to have coworkers?"

"Coworkers? You'll have coworkers! You'll have so many coworkers you're going to get tired of having coworkers!" Hermione couldn't help it, the small smile she cracked at the clearly gratuitous joke the older man made with a sweeping motion of his remaining arm. He looked down at her sheepishly, his spectacles tumbling to the end of his nose, perching there unevenly. "There's eight people working here, with you, Madame Black and I included. -Wait. Seven. Tiffany just quit after a strange bout to do with Nargles. Drove her mental. But I've got more applicants and I thought today might be a tour of the office without any- surprises."

"And by surprises you mean..."

"...People who might not clearly understand this situation so perhaps we should try to keep Madame Black busy." He glanced briefly at the other room where Bellatrix was tossing papers aside, sweeping boxes off the desk. She flicked her wrist elegantly and the overhead light short-circuited, crackled and died out, leaving the room as shaded as possible within a fluorescent lit office.

They looked in for a long while until the light flickered roughly back on, much dimmer now than it had been moments before.

"You're doing the right thing." He said, and rested heavy his paw of a hand at Hermione's shoulder, "Don't look so unsure. She hasn't burned it down yet."

* * *

"This is the fourth report of a slain unicorn we've gotten inside of four months. One a month. That's what seems to happen." Inside of a two week span she had organized all of Gregor's former and present cases, filed an 'in' and an 'out' box of concerns, and balanced the department's budget with the skill of a goblin working at Gringotts. She looked up when he entered the room, ducking slightly in the doorway to do so, and against the regulation blue of the office Gregor's purple-plaid-and-yellow-solid attire seemed to visually threaten her. She had to remind herself it was just Gregor, and his colors were loud. "We need someone with experience on this. Someone who's capable enough against whoever's got the bollocks to take on a sweet, wee thing like a unicorn."

"No. No, no, no. Absolutely not. That is so far out of the question it resides in another universe."

"We don't have a lot of choice. Miss Granger, she's the only person with the expertise to take on a possible threat this size."

"Yourself, then? What about you?" Hermione tried, nervously clasping her hands together atop the desk.

"I've got one good arm left. I'm not the wizard for this job."

"The Ministry would-"

"Miss Granger, the Ministry and its acting Minister allowed me to take her on for a position. A position I hired her to fill. She's, pardon my saying, pure jobby at paperwork. She's handled one situation and we had to replace her window when she broke it because she was frustrated. She isn't cut out for a desk, lass. She's a restless beast, that one. She needs to be out."

"And I cannot keep tabs on her in the field. Mister Townsend, what you're suggesting is a gamble of massive proportions."

"I must be daft. And here I was thinking the intent of this little crusade was to make a good example." Somehow, there was never a thing but a wizened nature to the one-armed gentleman, and though his tone was good-natured it did not feel patronizing. "She can't_ be_ you or I, lass. If you get three men to put a suit on a bear all you get is two dead men, one drastically injured one and a bear screaming as he tears off the suit. This is preventable if one of the men realizes you shouldn't try to put the suit on the bear at least midway through the silly ordeal. The bear doesn't like the suit and she doesn't want to wear it, and if we force it on her she's going to gore us for it. And then she won't trust us at all."

The chance was there, so Hermione took it, "Was it a bear who cost you that arm, sir?"

"This? Nuh. 'Twas a Hungarian Horntail. Bit of a crabbit beast. Shouldn't have tried to prove they're capable of being tamed. Ruddy bas took it off with his teeth. All I wanted was to ask politely if he could sit, please. I would like to think he heard 'bite' instead of sit. Was particularly windy that day."

There was a cocktail of anxiety in the pit of Hermione's stomach and it churned and spun like the inside of a washing machine. It was beginning to feel like what she imagined a parent went through letting their child take bus themselves to school for the first time. It was either let that kid go and find their way, trust them to come back to the safety of their home, or refuse such a privilege and deny the shape of that particular brand of independence.

He was right. Wild Bellatrix was useless behind a desk. She hadn't taken well to being captive. The inability to remain in constant motion left her a restless liability. And weren't idle hands the worst things there were, or how did that adage Hermione vaguely remembered go? She couldn't remember in between how annoying it had become to literally spend every second of her day making life altering decisions.

"She can go. With the appropriate surveillance. I need two Muggle mobiles. I'll be performing a _Prior Incantato_ when she returns. If there's a partial utterance of an Unforgivable this is over. She has six hours to complete her task. If she doesn't she is still obligated to return. I'll not have the Aurors following her. They'll turn the entire thing into rubbish once she feels pressured. She has to check in on a mobile every ten minutes. A single mistake and she's immediately removed."

"It's been almost a year, Miss Granger. Maybe this extension of trust will do some good for her attitude."

"I trust your judgment, Mister Townsend, and I fervently pray you are right."

* * *

"Blasted fucking nonsense."

Beneath her there was a mess of blood steadily gaining ground, a muck of leaves soaked crimson. The tree behind her roughly scratched at the raw, gaping hole and it took every ounce of her focus to remain upright and steady, but it at least allowed a solid stand to keep her on her feet.

"I can't believe the Ministry sent Bellatrix bloody fucking Lestrange after us!"

The boy was young, his hair poorly bleached a horrific white-blonde, and from beneath dark roots crept their meager ways into the shoddy excuse for a coloring. A small hoop impaled through his right eyebrow, his inquisitively golden brown eyes maintained a discomfiting luster to them that had achieved a faintly metallic sheen.

"She got gored right enough! -Oi, Cole? Where do you suppose she is?"

"Shut_ up,_ Fex!" She had seen his face for only a brief moment, but she could make out through the haze of her eyesight his features and the way they seemed to angle. The dark talon of her wand was several feet away and among the twigs and branches she witnessed it, helplessly out of reach, but so temptingly close she felt perpetually beseeched to reach for it. Of course she was not a stupid woman, and therefore would not do such a stupid thing.

"Useless Muggle bullshit." She scowled hotly. The mobile phone in her hand had beeped and flashed, but evidently she had overridden its entire function by impatiently smashing the touch screen until it was borderline unresponsive. It kept insisting she 'say a command' and that was the last straw. There was nothing covert about the idiotic communications device.

A girl's voice spoke up, one evidently younger sounding than the two boys Bellatrix had heard before her, "Do you reckon we'll be expelled for this?"

"If the lot of you don't shut up I'm going to Cruciate you mercilessly."

The footsteps had stopped, and this was the unfortunate moment the phone beeped in, ringing in distorted fashion for half a second until Bellatrix rapidly clicked 'answer' on the word 'Mudblood' and held it up to her ear.

_"There has never been anyone in deeper shit than you right now. Yes, that is a word I emphatically said. You are in so much shit that fortunately for you I have told the Aurors you've checked in on a lead and are following it. Which is something I have no idea about because you have not checked in with me for four hours and you are four hours over your allotted time limit. The only reason I am not this minute sending you on a one way ride back to Azkaban is because I want to look you in the eye right now and do it myself. Now either tell me what the hell you think you are doing or give me the world's greatest excuse and perhaps I'll pity you, but right now, Bellatrix Black, your future is looking very dark and incarcerated."_

"There's been a _problem."_

_"Your breathing is irregular. And I can barely hear you. Speak into the receiver a bit louder. Are you holding it upside down again?"_

"I'm not fucking holding it any way. Just send the Merlin-be-damned Aurors you idiot."

_"I need you to be sure your phone is capable of tracking coordinates. I need you to go to the settings and give me the serial number."_

"I really haven't the time-"

_"HOW DO YOU EXPECT ME TO FIND YOUR LOCATION WITHOUT AN EXACT MEASUREMENT, YOU INFURIATING CREATURE?! MY NECK IS ON THE CHOPPING BLOCK FOR YOU, SO IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO CONTINUE ENJOYING A LIFESTYLE IN A ROOM LARGER THAN A UTILITY CLOSET YOU WILL DO AS I SAY!"_

"Did you hear that?" The girl said, and involuntarily Bellatrix cringed.

"I did. Is there someone else here?"

"Lestrange wasn't enough? She's been so domesticated the Ministry doesn't even think she can handle a single job. That would be hilarious if it wasn't an inexcusable shame."

_"Bellatrix, what the **hell** is going on?"_

"If you used your brilliant deductive reasoning you would understand I cannot talk. You'll have my coordinates in a moment, somefuckinghow. Send me a cavalry."

She closed her eyes and breathed for a moment, pushing her back against her hiding spot hard enough that the jab of sudden pain shredding through her shoulder succeeded in making her far more alert. She bit back the sharp, loud breath, no matter how difficult it was, and nearly cursed in the most fluent string of French obscenities there had ever been. Instead, she stayed very quiet, and wondered faintly if this would be the way she died.

* * *

"Harry!"

Bless Harry Potter. She regularly thanked god for him, and his good sense. The boy who lived, as he was known and often did not enjoy being called, had been forced by the brightest witch of her age to cling to the one semblance of muggle technology that made more sense than a large chunk of the wizarding world: a mobile phone. When it rang he flipped it open immediately, and was met with the breathless sound of Hermione's hushed panic.

"'Mione, are you alright?" His first reaction was to tense. It had been a year of Auror training and learning and since then, what with the contact he didn't have being Hermione's rather special situation, he hadn't gotten a chance to speak to his best friend as much as he would have liked. Add in the strange situation he was caught between (Ron still regularly muttered about it, red-faced and bothered, trying his best to respect her choices, failing in the face of his practical, distrusting self) and poor Harry Potter was at a loss.

"I need the invisibility cloak. I need it _right this minute_ and I would never ask for it unless it was a _first rate emergency."_

"Tell me she hasn't done something loony. And assure me she isn't holding a wand to your throat."

"She isn't, Harry. She isn't at all. She's trying to do something right, but she's in- a lot of trouble, and if I don't go about this quietly I will have collapsed everything I have been working for."

"Alright. Give me ten minutes and meet me in the Ministry Atrium."

In spite of Harry's gut feeling he wouldn't turn his back on Hermione. No, he reminded herself. She was infinitely practical. If she was playing this the way she was, it was for a reason. She was no fool. After all, he thought, it had often been Hermione who was the perfect planner. If she had a plan, whether it went awry or not, it was going to work.

"I won't be gone long, Ron. I've forgotten a few errands I forgot to run." He lied, and Ronald Weasley looked up from their shared kitchen table with a mouthful of muffin and a distracted glance, nodding as messily as his food seemed.

* * *

_"Cole._"_ T_he boy whined, presumably Fex, and he stamped his foot loudly. In spite of everything these ridiculous children had enough sense to stay in the area, and that left Bellatrix hemorrhaging between a rock and a hard place. She was rubbish at healing charms, that much was true, but there was little she wouldn't have done to repair a clean impalement even slightly. Fucking unicorn, the stupid creature had made enemies with the wrong person. "We haven't even really searched. We're not getting anywhere doing this. And I'm bored."

"She was run through by a unicorn, Fexin. She wouldn't have gotten far quickly and if we stay here when she chooses to do something bloody drastic or downright mental we can take her out. Well, Cole will."

"Thank you, Amelia." Cole replied, pleased as a cat who had slaughtered a rodent. In spite of all her suffering Bellatrix could do nothing but fantasize about gripping the eyebrow ring implanted into his face and tearing it free with almost no sound but a great deal of fleshy resistance. The thought filled her with a giddy warmth that might have replaced the sensation of blasted cold air filtering rapidly through her gaping injury, had the thought been more radiant.

"Shh." Hissed a sudden gust of air against the shell of Bellatrix Black's ear, accompanied with a voice speaking from the outer reaches of her cracked mind. And suddenly she felt a forceful pressure against her bloodied skin, the sure sensation of a palm shoved there, "This unicorn business- tell me the truth. Tell me you aren't lying to me. Tell me you haven't been two-timing us all. Tailor your answer rather carefully."

Everything whirled too quickly and she trembled, shuddered, consciously focused on numbing the pain that Hermione had chosen to sturdily inflict, "These children seem to be the culprits."

The pressure eased but didn't relent, and though her first instinct was to lash out at the unseen (and suddenly very nervy) Hermione it would have blown her cover utterly and completely. She sucked in a sharp breath, glancing past the trunk that had become her home, watching the trio amble aimlessly about their small section not too far off. They hadn't caught on. At least there was a stroke of luck.

"A unicorn attacked you. That is the cleanest run-through I have ever witnessed. And unicorns do not recklessly cause harm unless the action is heinous or directly hurtful to them, or unless the person is of despicable countenance-"

"Well, Granger, if you haven't noticed I'm not a _fucking kitten,_ am I?"

There wasn't enough time in the world to realize that she had just heard Bellatrix use her name. And, partially shocked, she let go.

"It was about fucking time, but if you assault me in such a way again I will cause you ungainly harm. Where are you, and how are you doing this?"

"Invisibility cloak."

"Children's tales."

"You're right to say that, but wrong in substance."

As if out of thin air a sliver of pale flesh had appeared, floating within the world, a tear in the background. It was a breakage in the atmosphere itself, like a Disillusionment Charm of phenomenal talent. And then a thick handful of light brown hair, a pale curl, and from within seemingly nowhere a shapely hand reached out, "Come on, then."

"My wand." Bellatrix interrupted immediately, and for a moment the weakness was evident in her still-gaunt face, in the crevices to her parchment skin where the color had drained. When she stared into those ink-pot eyes Hermione found nothing but a glossy, dark mirror. The hand retracted and the cloak closed, and Hermione wondered a moment if Bellatrix's request had been an inquiry for a favor, because it certainly did not sound like a demand.

"Yes." Hermione agreed, but truthfully did not have to say a word. She picked up the walnut thing instead, saw it clearly not far from where they were standing. It had been in her possession so long that the thing had a siren's call all its own, a whispering familiarity. She made sure to gently gather the thing into the cloak, to step forward, to avoid the awkward sensation she kept feeling trigger in the back of her mind. It would forever feel uncomfortable, to be seen and not seen. "Now that your journey has bled out half your life's blood I think a trip to St. Mungo's is in order."

The Invisibility Cloak served its purpose and like a great, encompassing pair of raven's wings it stuck Hermione with the burden of being forced far too close to Bellatrix for comfort. There were few reasons she found to feel detached from her inappropriate behavior while intoxicated a week or so ago, and proximity brought a flush to her cheeks that stirred around her conscious thoughts and made her dig up the less conscious ones. It didn't matter that the older woman was clammy and cold, exhaustedly disinterested, and altogether an unattractive mess.

"I would greatly prefer to avoid St. Mungo's and the inevitable scandal." How rare this was, Bellatrix not arguing, borderline polite. Disagreeing but without a seething rudeness, "Just home."

"Work first. Then home."

Home. Hermione's brain felt much too tired to dissect the nature of that word these days.


	22. Are You the Rabbit--

With alarming ease Hermione Granger recognized exactly why she had carried out this coup with only her own knowledge to call forth. Bellatrix was sat down at Gregor's desk as two Aurors asked her a series of questions, Hermione partially glued to her hip as she froze over and practically slammed shut, answering only in rude jokes and seething quips. There was a way to handle her and that way was one usually exclusive to Hermione. The kid gloves had to go on, and one had to choose words with the diplomacy of a commoner negotiating with an enraged queen.

With a harsh, condescending tone Bellatrix had insisted she not be taken to hospital, and she wouldn't accept medical care until she was good and solitary in her own comfort zone. So it was a wad of cotton balls stuffed into the frighteningly clean impalement and her insistence that she was perfectly fine: something Hermione knew to be false because Bellatrix had seemed almost normal as of late, and this shallow-breathing carcass propped up in the creaky wooden chair was certainly wounded.

One of the Aurors, a dark skinned woman by the name of Roxanne who was pleasant enough (and admittedly very in over her head to have been interrogating Bellatrix Black) breathed a small sigh of relief as Gregor thundered into his office after fifteen minutes, a facade set firmly in place like he meant business. And anyone who knew Gregor Townsend for more than five minutes knew there wasn't a follicle on his head nor a touch of fabric in his poorly matched tie that meant any sort of business. Unless that business was the business of playing chess with an Acromantula he had assisted when the poor fellow's fangs had been removed for their venom to sell on a black market, or the business of cuddling his large sheepdog named Mittens for his cute paws. In those two cases he did mean quite a bit of business.

"I believe it is now I will have to be taking my employees out of your care for the evening, Sir and Madame."

"We aren't through with the questions." Roxanne's partner, a very English gentleman named Colin who liked his tea with honey instead of sugar, raised his very pale, blonde eyebrows skeptically. Truth be told he was also at a loss. She hadn't done anything wrong. She had given them clean and desired information. Hermione Granger had backed it up with facts and believable details, plus a check and a distinct absence of Unforgivable curses. By this point they both just felt the need to be more thorough than was possible.

"You're through when office hours close and my staff is no longer under my jurisdiction. So they're no longer under yours, either, lads." He swiped his tie across his spectacles, replaced them on his face with a very even stare. Bellatrix might have felt something if it were still possible for her to feel within the echoing caverns of her rather desolate soul. Since that was not possible it was openly settled for that Gregor was not the least stupid in the room, but for that moment he was her favorite idiot.

"Your- Your work was very admirable, Madame Black." Roxanne managed, and hastily got to her feet with all the grace of a newborn foal whose legs were somewhat suspect. Bellatrix rolled her eyes and breathed out with weighty fatigue, nostrils flaring. Everything about her seemed to scream 'you have got to be kidding me'. But there was no kidding anymore. Just a parade of awkward interactions with children whose family members she might have killed. "I don't know if anyone would have kept their com-composure as well as you following a unicorn injury."

"I'm just a bouncing ray of special sunshine." There was an inevitable atmospheric pause, the looks of exchanged disbelief. Was it a joke? Should they laugh? Roxanne and Colin traded glances and couldn't find a shred of humor between the both of them. Not one that would make the joke of a serial killing, mentally unstable psychopath funnier.

The two departed, awkward nods and goodbyes exchanged. Hermione would soundly admit, though, that she was grateful to have given Aurors who seemed far less abrasive toward Bellatrix and far more willing to treat her like she wasn't to be solidly trod upon. They seemed like an alright pair. Perhaps just not experienced enough for something this sort of intense.

She found herself wondering when she had adapted. Was there a time period for this?

"Well," Gregor breathed, and his face lit up like a tree on Christmas once he knew he was done with being 'big boss man', "you did an exemplary job. The both of you. Now go home and take proper care of that thing. Poor unicorn musta been scared half to death by you, looks of it."

"And if you insist on this doting father routine the unicorn will not be the only one with reason."

* * *

"Unicorn injuries are troublesome. I suppose it is the equivalent of having been skewered by god, so there isn't any healing-"

"I am not one for healing charms, besides. How weak comfort makes a witch. How vulnerable. I would rather pain over simplicity."

Hermione Granger was the mouse tugging the thorn gently from the lioness's paw. She sat in that silent shadow and repeatedly avoiding being stabbed by that jut of sharp dagger Bellatrix called a collarbone. No human's structure could possibly protrude this viciously, but each time she went to lodge a complaint she found herself quieting. At least she looked remotely better than she had the first day she had seen Bellatrix in the Forbidden Forest, when she was an upright carnival act, when she had been a skeleton held by a ramrod spine and decorated with stretches of skin.

She didn't speak, just swiped at the bloodied edges and was remarkably impressed by how utterly little Bellatrix moved as she sewed. There had been enough injuries Hermione had handled firsthand, a few stitches and a gaping impalement on the calmest monster she had ever met were child's play.

"Why did you personally see to my problem when I asked for the Aurors?"

The query was honest. So honest Hermione turned her immediate attention to Cat and a rush of tingling panic settled into her skin.

"Because I don't trust the Aurors to treat you fairly. And I only partially trust your temper to treat the Aurors fairly."

The silence thickened and she braced for impact. The rude, snarky comeback, the nasty not needing help. It did not come.

"Thank you for using the logical part of your brain over the lawful one."

"Umm- hmm..." Hermione cleared her throat, and when she glanced over Bellatrix was staring right beside her, face unreadable, eyes darkly blank as she waited patiently for an answer with that judging, aloof gaze. To not respond would be rude. "You're- You're most welcome. You have come this far. As I have often read sometimes all it takes is one bad day. If I can prevent that bad day, then I will."

It was so small and so dizzying that Hermione thought she may have imagined the way Bellatrix's lips briefly brushed her cheek. When she looked back the older woman was staring disinterestedly once again toward their living room fireplace, and she could have sworn that without touching the wound, now, there was a small, unspoken semblance of pain knitted into Bellatrix's brow.

* * *

"Fudge is back at the Ministry."

"TELL ME YOU'RE BLOODY KIDDING!"

Harry had to hold the receiver away from his ear, wincing as Hermione shrieked at a volume that was nothing short of admirable. He swore his glass of water had vibrated, too, as though it seemed to understand his onsetting headache. Slowly, he replaced it and glanced up the stairs of the Burrow for a moment, assuring himself Ron wasn't in earshot. Ron wasn't even angry with Hermione, no, he was upset. And her 'crusade for justice' had been the last straw for him. And Harry sort of agreed, but he knew better than to ever say that to Hermione about something she felt strongly about. That was where she turned off.

"They've given him a position as an official. It gets worse."

"Worse? Worse?! How will it get worse, Harry?! The only way it's going to get worse is when I go to Azkaban for drowning Fudge in a Ministry toilet-"

"He's on the Unicorn case. And he's trying desperately to lead the trail back to Bellatrix."

There was a silence on the other end. It was so heavy Harry was frightened Hermione may have dropped the thing to race off and to the Ministry to slaughter Fudge herself. But no. It was just the calm before the storm.

"AFTER ALL I HAVE DONE FOR THIS?!" It suddenly returned full blast. Hell had no fury like someone threatening Hermione Granger's success rate. "She's not involved! I live with her! I am literally aware- to an exhausting and outright frustrating degree- of what she does every minute of the day. As a matter of fact, right now, right here she is reading- Bellatrix, what are you reading?!"

"Sod off, a memoir of how Bellatrix Black killed a Mudblood for interrupting her study of the significance of tree bark locations and how they affect a wand's make."

"There, you see?! Did you hear-"

"Hermione. Hermione. _Stop. I believe you." _

"This is inexcusable. He absolutely cannot pull this. Who put him back into power in the first place? This smells outright dodgy. Harry, do you know anything else?"

_"_That's all I've heard so far. I wanted to tell you. It's Fudge. I've little doubt it _won't_ become a problem."

For a moment, she broke. The anger drained, and she cupped the receiver against her mouth to muffle the small, sad sound. It took everything in her to keep her from crying, but he was Harry, best friend Harry, trustworthy, understanding Harry. And he was more a brother to her than she felt anyone had been. "I'm sorry for all this, Harry. I am."

"We've all got to do what we think is right. And it's not wrong if you feel that strongly about it. If you're going to be sorry, be sorry that you'll never have privacy again. You don't have anyone to apologize to except your sanity, it sounds like."

The joke felt normal. So few things did, nowadays.

When she got off the phone with him her mood was just about the strangest thing she had ever experienced. Leave it to Hermione Granger to be absolutely furious and somehow regretful in one fell swoop. She wondered if there was a specific name for this or if it was a new breed of emotion specific to a human being who had dismantled her own life to chase after a cause that made it infinitely more difficult.

"Have you had your little tantrum?"

When she glanced up from the kitchen table Bellatrix was standing against the open frame that led in from the living room, her arms crossed. Cat, who was now a cat and no longer a kitten and Hermione felt like she had never noticed before, wrapped languidly around Bellatrix's ankles with a pleasant purr.

"Fudge is-"

"Looking to tie the noose around my neck, no doubt. I heard you. London heard you, to be clear. Spineless little puddle of mush is up to something."

"But you're on a different side now, and here we have rules. Rules you have to follow. A game you have to play."

"My earlier years slip your mind, I suppose. Previous to my rather triumphant place at the Dark Lord's right hand. I had assumed a year's worth would lift that veil from your eyes. It's a great lot to expect of a Mudblood, that sort of deductive reasoning. I am well acquainted with this flawed excuse for a system some call 'law', if one can even call it that. Our vocations have taught me a touch about it. The few times I have been forced to endure the legal proceedings, anyway."

"Look," Hermione began, and she trampled right over the insults. Because by now she had realized Bellatrix's insults were just as reflexive as the act of breathing oxygen. "I put myself in this situation purposefully. I make promises and I absolutely, under no circumstance, break them. As long as you put your best foot forward I am willing to remain decidedly by your side."

"I owe, it seems, a begrudging apology."

Out of the things in Hermione's life that surprised her the most that one took first place. It was a jackhammer right to the gut.

"Oh?"

"A few weeks gone by I called you the 'Gryffindor I never understood'. My accusations about your nerve were wrong."

_"Oh?" _She tried again, only because she was robbed of words so greatly that Bellatrix was rapidly thieving into the night with her vocabulary.

"Don't use all your eloquence at once. I'm only extending an entire olive tree in this moment."

Perhaps the next gesture made was something that took the most courage she had ever experienced. It was a sort of daring Hermione had never summoned before. Facing death, ensuring torture, battling a war had been things she had grown to understand, things she had adapted to. What a psychological facet that was. But here was territory uncharted, so she reached hesitantly forward and took Bellatrix's hands in her own, stubbornly glancing at them as though she dreaded more than anything the expression on the older woman's face. Truth be told, she did, but regardless she pursed her lips to try for speech and waited whole moments until the waning courage in her windpipe followed suit, "It's alright. I suppose I haven't been acting in a fashion Godric Gryffindor would be very proud of. Not completely."

Bellatrix's eyebrow shot straight up, attentive, and she tried to jerk away. Hermione, however, only tightened her grip as though teaching some small lesson and readied herself for the lash. It didn't come. This in itself was astonishing. Or maybe it amazed her that she didn't choke to death on the lump in her throat.

"I would say," Bellatrix muttered darkly, like a halfhearted threat, "that this particular action takes more courage than Godric Gryffindor ever could have imagined."

* * *

Gregor looked like, in the week that had passed, he had not slept a wink. His hair had been messily braided (as neatly as one could manage with one hand, after all, though he had grown accustomed), which was an indicator that he had overworked himself to the point of suffocating exhaustion. And, to boot, his suit jacket matched the vest beneath.

"Hermione," He groaned wearily as she entered, filling out yet another field report for a centaur property dispute Bellatrix had been given the okay to handle. And had done surprisingly well, with the exception of learning to replace action with profanity so action was less tempting. And profanity did come so easy to her, "We've got to get another body in here doin' paperwork. Fudge has done everything but stand in front of me and physically assault me. I cannae handle and since Madame Black is a hazard to the technical side of things-"

"A personal assistant!" Hermione blurted. "We can get you a personal assistant."

It alarmed her. She knew he was Scottish, but this was the first time it had gone thick enough for that 'cannae'. And he was always so careful with his 'cannots'.

"Bloody turncoat coward, hasn't done anything but-" he trailed. Evidently Fudge had crawled right beneath his skin.

"Sir, trust me very well on this, he isn't worth your frustration."

"Has Madame Black been made aware of the situation?" He removed his spectacles from his eyes, folded them, an awkward mash with a single set of digits. When Gregor forgot himself he was a deliberate mess.

"The moment it became a problem, sir."

"I won't have her gettin' handsy with him, if it comes to that. She's the only one we have here to take the rougher stuff and she doesn't deserve what that blithering-"

"Sir, is there some personal history between you and Fudge?"

She asked it immediately and then stopped herself, eyebrows raising, suddenly all too frustrated with her foot in mouth syndrome. She hadn't even stopped to consider the intrusion. It had just tumbled ungracefully from her mouth.

"The dobber tried to get me sacked. Brought up how I was 'unfit' and a 'poor influence' 'cause I didn't think we should be conductin' business oblivious in the middle of a bloody war. The whole lot of us aren't blind. And the whole lot of us aren't stupid, either!"

It was suspect, any of them could admit. How had someone as scandalized as Fudge found himself more legal work, and how could Kingsley allow it?

"Fudge was a great wrench in the machine, he was. For ages I could hardly run this place. Lost half my staff, scared to death. Fudge told every rumor and lie about me there was. All because I thought he was a daft moron and we shoulda been taking precautions. Muggle deaths, unicorns and centaurs, werewolves by the packs. It was a damn war and I was supposed to keep hush and watch while I just- couldn't do my job. Bloody slaughtered great masses of whole species and 'no, Gregor, the old one armed nutter. Lost his brain along with his limb'. Fudge. _Fudge." _He spat the name like a nasty curse, like the worst profanity he had ever dared to utter. And it may as well have been.

"He doesn't have nearly the same authority, sir. Don't worry. The worst he can do now is be a nuisance. I wouldn't even title him as a threat."

"All the same I need someone to take some of this. You and I aren't enough. And it's beginning to get a bit... hard to manage."

"Don't worry. I have someone in mind. I'll have to talk to Kings- the Minister about it. But I assure you, sir, I have this well in control."

And the only thing she could think was how truly she did not have it in control at all.


	23. --Or the Headlight?

**Bit of a trigger warning here for character death. Yes, I have a sad, too. My tumblr is currently Hannibals-Apathetic-Duckface if you'd like previews or discussions or just generally to drop me a line! I know, I know, Kat, stop changing your Tumblr url. Thank you very much for all the support, you guys are wonderful!**

* * *

"It's about Kerk, Minister."

Kingsley had achieved it. The position was his, and before him in the large, ornate Ministry office was the Brightest Witch of her Age. The woman who, by this point, had been one of the most integral boosts to the top for him.

"Go on, Hermione." It was astonishing that he had taken this much advice from someone most would consider a child, but few minds were as sound or as sharp as hers. The young woman was as clever as a cat, as brave as a lion, and as ferocious as a jaguar, and with all those combined traits she was a force to be reckoned with. Hermione folded her hands on his desk and leaned forward, her eyebrows raising carefully, her nose wrinkling in the smallest way before she drew the words about in her mouth for a second, mulling them first in her head.

"For a boy hardly above the age of seventeen he's become an Animagus with absolutely zero formal training. He has never been a student of an official form of academia and it is inferred, from what he has shared with us, that he was raised in an environment where he was taught the most rudimentary basics of learning. Reading and writing, some small level arithmetic. There is an extraordinary level of aptitude for a wizard, a level of pressure and intellect that could be a naturally beneficial gift."

Kingsley motioned with a large hand, nodding encouragingly. And yet Hermione had stopped again, inner cogs working in slow twitches that gained gradual bursts.

"Working within our department could put us a step ahead of this new threat we're facing. His distance from us and isolation allows for some sort of- of detachment. We are still the enemy, to him. And even if we're not _his _enemy it isn't allegiance I'm talking about. We direly need an extra brain and set of hands in the Magical Creatures department. Bellatrix is sloppy at best with her paperwork and Mister Townsend can only carry so much of it, what with Fudge constantly on top of his workdays. Kerk could be a very welcome member of the staff and perhaps he would feel persuaded to be more honest and comfortable if he learned we were not standoffish. The boy's life seems to have been a sure pile of standoffish."

"We have deemed him trustworthy. If Gregor is willing to take him on, then I am very willing to trust your judgment, Miss Granger."

"-And one other thing!" She was breathless, the topic slipping into the light suddenly. When Kingsley gave her a quizzical glance she silenced a bit, embarrassed, "I've given Madame Black a mobile, a piece of Muggle technology used to keep in immediate contact up to the minute since she has been allotted field missions. I would like to introduce a computer filing system into the Department. I believe it would do a great lot of good. As fantastic as Mister Townsend is he isn't well organized."

Kingsley was not the Minister in that moment, not when he bore his teeth in a charming, vivid smile to laugh in a rumbly chortle, "Gregor has always been a little scattered."

That made her smile. It was true enough. The stress of this position would have tore her to shreds if it weren't for the good-natured, one-armed older gentleman who shared her rather kind worldview. It wasn't naive, he understood, it was optimistic. She had no reservations and without those she could take it all in stride while hoping for the best. And Gregor could be the picture of optimism, sometimes.

"Have you found this position rewarding? I hope you have. I had assumed you were best suited for that Department."

"It's a bit off-color. It took acclimating. But I suppose in the last year acclimation has been something I've gotten very good at."

"I will allow a trial-run of this Muggle equipment, with a bit of a stipulation: if you can have Gregor and the Department entirely up to date and running with it in play by the end of the month you can keep this Muggle technology around."

"Minister," Hermione chirped, and she beamed so largely it surfaced at her eyes like bubbles eagerly floating up a can of pop, "you will not be disappointed."

* * *

"This," she began, patting the top of the monitor with the utmost fondness, "is a laptop."

"A bloody fucking what?" Bellatrix scowled, squinted her eyes at the faint glow of the screen. She didn't comprehend it. There was nothing making the thing glow and it didn't sound like magic. Just he annoying hum of something and breaths of hot air expelling from a small slot in the side.

"When you've done what you have to do- see, look here-" a hand reached out and Hermione took Bellatrix's wrist from across the desk, plainly hovering her hand over the plethora of click-ready keys. There seemed no boundary that physically could have stopped this, "-when you've finished an assignment this is a paperwork evaluation. It's much simpler than doing it without a predetermined system. Here goes the incident report, here goes the resolution, here go the results and compromises made and met, and here go any troubles or complaints with the job. Simple. I've made a spread sheet-"

"A bloody fucking what." Bellatrix droned tonelessly, for this time it was not a question.

"Look. Keystrokes." Hermione tried, glanced calmly over to be sure the gauzy bit of cotton hadn't bloodied at the older woman's flesh, and lightly tugged her finger down to click the 'a'.

"Look," Bellatrix shot right back, and immediately forced her fingers around Hermione's. She reversed the position gently, pressed harshly down on a knuckle until a spew of awkward letters painted the screen thanks to the other's mashing fingers. The useless word-vomit halted when Bellatrix smirked with a shrill giggle, _"keystrokes." _

"This conversation has literally consisted of you merely parroting back my own words at me."

"Rubber and glue, Granger."

_"You're not even in the right position to be using that analogy." _Hermione hiss hotly, red-faced, self-consciously tucking a few errant curls behind her ears. A trait, it could be said, she gained only when she felt embarrassed.

"Have I hurt pwetty wittle ickle baby's feewings? She's all _rosy posy."_

_"Ooh- You'll-" _with a great gust of breath clarity settled around Hermione's shoulders, a shawl of intended calm. She pictured it. She could feel it. It was very light and gentle, terribly thin, silken. She forced out the quick to anger tone and let her bones settle instead, let that pincushion feeling of rage tremble out of her pores and away. A small, expressionless look of smarmy delight overtook her, "No."

"No?"

"No."

_"No." _Bellatrix repeated stubbornly.

Hermione reached up swiftly and grabbed those hands, still gnarled, kept those long fingers in her rather sturdy grip with no intent but only to _hold. _She spoke firmly, "No."

"I'm warning you again, as the last seems to have fallen on your clearly genetically inferior, deaf ears- release me from this flash of sudden bravery or I will make you regret I ever referred to this behavior as a positive and not a death-wish."

_"Cowards die many times before their deaths; The valiant never taste of death but once."_

"All I need is once to make of you a coward, you Shakespearean swine. I am not openly sure if we have been acquainted. My name is Bellatrix Black, of the noble and most ancient House of Black, and you are impeding very unpleasantly on my personal space."

But here, Hermione had thought, was how to win the game.

"So do get me to sod off, then."

"I haven't the need when I would much rather you respect that yourself. I think your Muggle nonsense's radiation has affected my judgment. Dear me, I seem to be pushing the instrument of your potential undoing into your knee just beneath this desk. The one that would kill you if I happened to feel particularly out of hand in a very concealed way."

Hermione dropped her grip, held her hands up with a sigh, "I was only joking. It slipped my mind that all your jokes are in poor taste."

"I haven't been in poor taste my entire life. I assure you, I am not in poor taste now."

There were few ways, however, to get Hermione to listen. Instead she wheeled her own chair around the desk and set herself beside Bellatrix, who repeatedly glared down at her with her neck greatly craned. She strained like this until small dribbles of red wept from her wound in drops of faint blood, tugging roughly apart the embedded stitching, and Hermione scolded her as she insistently swiped away the mess with a square of material soaked already in alcohol.

"Please. Try the damned thing at least. I ask it as a favor."

"If you ask of me such a tedious favor then you owe me a greater favor." She turned, a snarky smirk on her lips, and she breathed softly beside Hermione's ear, "What to suggest, what to suggest, or perhaps to hold onto it. I could ask of you anything, without reason or parameters. I could humiliate you if I liked. The perks of allowing another to be indebted to you. The perks of another's pathetically yearning desire to get you to cooperate."

"I don't care." Hermione sputtered quickly, "As long as you do your end of the paperwork."

* * *

The day had been a remote success. Technology in place, check, a laptop to each employee, check, a lesson from Hermione Granger how to use each laptop, triple check. It was remarkable how many times she had to explain the nature of electricity, and even more remarkable how many jinxes and charms had to be laid upon each chunk of hardware to make it operational. There was a spell she had managed to work out to charge the thing when it died, but she made sure to give every coworker a rundown on the importance of keeping a watchful eye on one's battery life. Was it still battery life without a battery? No matter. She could charge the thing and that was what was imperative.

It had taken a substantial amount of her time, but cooped up for a solid year with a complete madwoman was enough to force some hobbies. And, for one, Hermione had been paining a prototype for a mobile that would operate off magic rather than electricity. Magic tended to tamper unpleasantly with the innards of Muggle devices, and she needed to be able to keep contact with Bellatrix on field missions. No one felt comfortable with the premise of the former Brightest Witch of what seemed to be Generations ago wandering the continents with no tether. Hermione included.

Tomorrow she would speak to Kerk about his position in the Ministry. Oops, it may have crossed her mind that he may say 'no', but why would he? A position in a rebuilding government, benefits, a chance to actively learn in action. The boy's mind reminded her of her own. He would bite.

"I believe I am going to bed. After today's fiascos I feel more than a bit knackered."

"Plaguing innocent witches and wizards with harrowing perplexity must be tiresome. I do see how much tyranny can take out of a person."

"You're bleeding again. All over the furniture." At some point Bellatrix had taken to pressing against the escaping smudge of blood with her palm, as though this small gesture would hide it from Hermione's notice. However, there were few things Hermione let go. And this was not one of them. "I'll have to take a needle to that. You are either too strenuous on it or purely unlucky."

"I haven't done- OW!" She exclaimed in rapid surprise, a sudden hand clapping where the wellspring of Bellatrix's insides had sallied forth. She shouted again, a word of rather unsavory proportions Hermione did not much need to hear, and continued to draw the needle in and out of the stubborn thing.

"Stop whining. You're a member of the noble and most ancient House of Black, remember? -There. All done." Absentmindedly, Hermione pressed a small kiss against two fingertips on her right hand and pressed them to the sealed injury with a tender sort of tap that drew forth only a very strange look. And in place of the creeping blush beginning at Hermione's cheeks she chose, instead, to speak in a low, slightly squeaky tone, "My- My mum used to do it for me when I was small and I got hurt. You- You kiss it better so it- so it gets better."

"Muggles." Bellatrix growled dismissively. She swiped a thumb across the spot as though she could seal in what had happened moments ago, and how ludicrous it really seemed. "To bed. Before I curse you for leaving me literally no time to myself in this entire twenty-four hour day."

"Right." Hermione whispered swiftly.

The moment she touched upon the first stair it alarmed her to hear Bellatrix Black say breezily, "Goodnight."

* * *

There was something unusual about. They had decided it, both alike, when they stepped out of their rooms ("I'll go make breakfast." "No. Your unsatisfying culinary skills char the entire meal." "Fine. You go do it." "Yes. Well. You go first.") to brave the cooking process.

It was a wonder to her how this basket case was the sister of Narcissa Malfoy. Was Narcissa different, more tolerant? As children, had Draco's congenial, cold mother been even a slight more affectionate than she was, now? Bellatrix was constantly exuberant, bursting with childish energy. And there was no way this attitude was a recent development. No way in hell. And Andromeda, as far as she had remembered from the brief times they had met, was kind and welcoming. In a lot of eerie ways she looked like Bellatrix would have without being half starved to death and thrown off the cliffs of insanity.

God, what kind of brat from hell had Bellatrix been to her sisters when they were adolescents?

And then, as she descended the last stair into the living room, Bellatrix just behind her, something assaulted her nostrils. It wafted putridly through the house, through the slight crack in the slightly- ajar front door?

Bellatrix bristled, placing a heavy, insistent hand on Hermione's shoulder to gracefully step by her on the stairs and push her sharply aside. Her tone was low and cutting, the sound of a rabid canine's snarling growl, "Someone has been in Bella's house, someone has. Someone who has no place here, no no."

The unsettling stench overpowered poor Hermione just as Bellatrix eased the front door open completely, forcing her to fling a hand over her nose and retch up a mostly empty stomach. Perhaps it was because on their doorstep was the mangled carcass of their favorite pet, sandy fur matted and gooey with dried blood.

And across the door, written wide over scarlet painted gashes sliced into the wood, were the words _'BLOOD TRAITOR'. _


	24. Failure By Design

Hermione stood there in shivering disbelief, waiting for the dam to shatter, for the tears to flood in with enormous force. For long moments she could not address the feeling because it was trapped so harshly between an utter, sinking fear and a sort of bottomless sadness. There was the threat. There was the follow-through. And here was the evidence of her naive belief, here was the concrete proof that Hermione wanted to do good, but maybe the good she wanted to do was _stupid. _

"I'll kill them." The words came from Bellatrix's lips with a startling chill, very even, very steady. Her eyes were wide and lost again, like a frightened child taking in a scene, but Hermione knew her very well and it was not fear she was experiencing. "I will kill them, yes, oh yes."

She shoved viciously past Hermione suddenly, leaving the younger woman there to shudder into a few finally slipped teardrops down her cheeks and the bleak dark of the rainy morning. She couldn't move from the doorstep, nor the sacrificial corpse of their sweet little Cat, the poor thing messily undignified, suited to a foul death she sorely did not deserve.

"I will kill them." Bellatrix repeated again, louder, more shrill, "oh yes, I will _kill _them."

From within the house she could hear the harsh sounds of things clamoring and moving, shattering and shifting, scraping harshly across the floor, and the unmistakable clicks of Bellatrix's heavy heels. Hermione knelt and gathered the smeared mess of a feline into her hands, too entirely numb to care about what an atrocious pile of guts she was, in fact, holding.

And that was the moment that Bellatrix froze cold in her tracks and glanced her housemate who was crying rather quietly, messy dribbles of congealed and fresh blood slipping through her fingers. It was as though the haze had receded and she glimpsed Hermione with clarity, with reality slowly filtering in.

"You can't." The young witch said simply, whimpering, _"You can't."_

"They've threatened my home. They've insulted my pride. They've harmed _my family." _A long, sharp finger jabbed accusingly at the figure that had once been her beloved Cat, that had once been the creature who had taken a liking to her in spite of herself. She never understood it, but she was fond of the animal, and perhaps in a world where she was absent all allies but one it felt almost nice to add a second to that list, even if it was only a kitten.

"So what? _So what?! _So it justifies you being foolish enough to go on a mad killing crusade?! Don't give me anything otherwise, we all know you better, and we all know you've got a name and a thought in your head and your only course of action is to murder it!"

"Do not condescend to know me!" She whirled suddenly in a low hiss, but the words lacked their usual venom and the intent behind them sounded to be a mere memory. Who had de-barked the dog, who had de-clawed the cat? Bellatrix Black kept her wand so tight in her fist that her knuckles had turned white, and she trembled with the force of this flagrant rage. There was nothing graceful about the way she held it and somehow that was the most frightening part. "Put that wretched animal down before you contract a rabid disease of some like!"

On a normal day, Hermione would have been offended. She would have snapped back, hurt, accused about what Bellatrix always referred to as 'petty feelings'. But instead she looked the taller woman up and down and recognized only the nature of a deep hurt that had jabbed her potently in the heart. Bellatrix was furious. She was a snake who had been wounded, and now she was _recoiling. _

"We're going to bury her. And then we're going to report this incident-"

_"The fuck we will. _It was one of those snotty little children who killed that unicorn. They knew me. They saw me. _They mocked me. _And now I am going to track each of them one by one and I'm going to _torment _them until I receive an answer. If they should expire before I succeed it will be all in-"

_"NO." _

Hermione's insistence was the thundering boom of decided authority.

"No. You can't. You cannot. Think of your effort. This is a test and you just have to know, you have to understand, that is not how we do things."

"And why are you so concerned with how I obey the process, hm? Why do you feel so troubled about it-"

_"BECAUSE I DON'T WANT YOU SENT BACK TO AZKABAN!"_

It hung in the air, a disconcerting quiet that could not quite penetrate, and Hermione had not wept harder, but her eyes were watery with the unshed possibility as she continued, "I am holding the last of everything I have in my hands if you get tossed in and shut up inside a bloody cell, you great, selfish beast! I've given up my entire life for nothing but a handful of cat guts, as you would make it! But I won't put up with it, I won't, and I will thank you to extract your head from your own arse and look around at the world for a moment! Just because you have ceased to care about you doesn't mean everyone else has!"

"Remember who it is you're speaking with." She growled gently, stepped up, flicked her wand. The animal levitated suddenly from Hermione's grasp and set down on their coffee table, a pitifully lifeless reminder. Her dark eyes flicked downward and Hermione had to incline her head just slightly to peer up, to precisely lock her horrific gaze. "Remember who it is you have the nerve to reprimand."

"Your routine is old and very tired, _Black." _This time the flustered sensation did not come. The proximity didn't set her at unease. She remained very settled and very confident, more in control than she had ever felt. "You have clawed me, shoved me, partially assaulted me, unsettled me and been the source of my predominate discomfort. My sleepless nights and the uncomfortable state I have woken in after exhausting evenings on the couch have been your fault. You will not dare to look me in the eye and say my sacrifices have been for nothing. And, moreover, you will not look me in the eye and tell me you do not care or else you will not have behaved for this long."

"Behaved..." She growled quietly. Hermione swore she could see a very rosy tinge beneath all that messy hair, as though the tips of Bellatrix's ears had gone pink, as though the flush was striking her cheeks in an almost irritable way. Like being lashed until it reddened. "Like an animal. Like a dog. Behaved for you, have I?"

"I ask you, politely, I beg of you, imploringly, don't throw this away on an angry mistake."

"Someone touched my things-"

"And they're going to pay for it. Now let's bury our dead and consider the best ways to go about dealing with the bloody git stupid enough to invade the home of the brightest witches of their respective ages."

"My age was first." Bellatrix muttered with the force of profound superiority. And her calm was a tidal wave of a rush. It seemed she did not do a single feeling with anything but exuberance.

* * *

The hole in the front yard was exhumed with a simple spell, but when Bellatrix went to a levitation Hermione quickly stopped her and said it would make her feel infinitely better to place the little thing in the old fashioned way. She rolled her eyes and clenched her teeth like a stubborn bulldog but let the younger woman pick up the body wrapped in Cat's favorite blanket, a soft, pink one Hermione had purchased from a lovely shop in town. So she knelt and gently placed the small thing in the rather well cut out hole, glancing up to Bellatrix. And the dirt began to sift inside, to cover the body, to pour rapidly in like such great clumps that she forgot herself and turned around, tossed both her arms around the other woman. The motion quivered with desperation.

Bellatrix froze up sharply. All at once her body was not a collection of limbs but a single husk of painful flesh, made together of sinew and bone. Her hands hovered questioningly at her sides and she could not fight the look of creeping displeasure, could not silence the boiling, unspoken rage that was threatening to blow the pot's lid and ooze all over the rest of the unsuspecting world. But she could not cast off someone for grief. Even she had an understanding of mortality. A hand raised unsurely, pulled sharply at a few unruly brown curls in the other woman's hair as though the vicious gesture was a comfort. She had really assumed any touch was, but she had never been brilliant at reading others, and it could be said that a year as a lone wolf and nearly fifteen more in Azkaban left a person exceptionally socially deficient. Hermione flinched but didn't recoil from the gesture. If Bellatrix wanted to peel her off, she just as easily would have tossed her aside with all the foreign strength in that wiry frame.

"They'll die for having set foot in a Black's home without permission. Even if we have to navigate the legal angle of this situation. They will die for reckless arrogance just as all others have for me." Hermione snuffled a bit, though honestly she was doing a valiant job forcing her own composure. She faltered; embarrassed to realize that in a vulnerable instinct she had tried for the comfort. And yet still Bellatrix was keeping her stiffly at arm's length like a toy soldier carved out of wood. But at least she hadn't been mauled. "Blood traitor. Standing here a prisoner and still I exist in a dilapidated world where someone is foolish enough to accuse of that nonsense. A good spot of war doesn't teach an idiot anything."

"I'm sorry," Hermione began lamely, touched at one of Bellatrix's pencil thin wrists as though she needed the confirmation this woman was still real and not an imagined hallucination, "for more than likely being the traitor part of that accusation."

"Shut your filthy, Muggle-born mouth." It was the first time the scathing tone had been directed at her in such a way, and it made Hermione feel like she was a little girl again, like she was that child when she had told her mother she was stupid because the other kids said so. And how angry her mother had been with her, how furious to hear her call herself such a thing. "If I'm to so painfully associate with you, you will retain a level of dignity. A level of dignity you cannot achieve by apologizing for your dirty blood. Make no apologies to anyone. Not when you're wrong, not even when you are truly sorry. You do and are purely and completely. To be sorry for any of it is nothing less than weakness. To be sorry is to lie to only yourself. And yourself is the only person that will ever matter. Rescind your apology."

"I'm not sorry at all?" Hermione seemed to ask, which earned her a swat on the ear and a jostle at the collar.

"I remain unconvinced."

"I _am_ sorry that you neglect to remember to clip your god-awful talons, _Jesus Christ." _

"I heard 'am sorry' and I wasn't very swayed. Again."

"I'm not sorry, alright? You raging lunatic, I am not sorry."

"Never shall you be again. For anything. Or you'll face scolding for humiliating my noble stature."

"You're incorrigible." Hermione whispered, and for once she wanted to be in the presence of Narcissa, to ask if this was the definition of Bellatrix behaving favorably.

She never thought, of all people, she would _want _to talk to a Malfoy.

* * *

For the rest of the day the two were understandably frazzled. There were moments where Hermione's productivity punctured, a balloon bleeding out helium in a slow leak, times where she deflated almost imperceptibly. But before presenting a case to Kingsley Shacklebolt all of their facts had to be in order, and most importantly this was where Bellatrix had to be a key component: they needed a reasonable and competent list of suspects. They needed a few imperative bullet points to make something tangible. To figure out who had been there.

As was expected, magic and forensics didn't cross paths too often.

"One of those bloody children. In the forest from that day with the unicorn. That is my best educated guess."

"You've got so many enemies they're an imaginary number. They could simply multiply and divide themselves into existence at will. So broaden the field and then narrow it."

"Children. Woods. Greyback. Distant branches of my own family. The delivery wizard who brought me a new broom when I was sixteen, the one I hexed into slight impotence? Is the field narrowing?"

"You hexed someone into impo- never mind, never mind. It isn't important. Let us become a touch more recent."

"Children. Forest. Greyback." Bellatrix said, her words utterly final. She carelessly examined her nails and tapped them along her dusty desk, gouged them deep in and implanted small scratches along the wood.

"Do you remember names, distinguishing features?"

"I'm going to run you through with a unicorn horn and then see how much information you retain."

"How do you expect to understand this if you can't give us a bloody thing to go off of?"

"One of the stupid little gits had a hoop in his eyebrow. A boy and a girl were with him. I don't know if you have ever tried very resolutely to focus on your breathing so you stay quiet enough to not get hexed from three sides but it requires chunks of concentration and far too much to keep your wits about you in every other direction. I know you're perfect, Granger, but you're far from experienced."

"Alright, that's quite enough." Hermione decided, and it was. She was rather not in the mood to be ridiculed or jabbed at further. "I would say an eyebrow ring is distinguishing enough. Let's put in an appointment with Kingsley and then I'll tell Mister Townsend I've got to have a chat with Kerk."

"And leave me here? What does this look like, a daycare for slightly dangerous children? No. I'm coming as well."

"And if I say _no?"_

"You will be ignored."

* * *

Kingsley was away on business (something Hermione knew but Bellatrix couldn't resist giving his administrative assistant an earful of 'perhaps he should understand there are certain privileges I have should I start feeling particularly antsy' until she was dragged away forcefully by the other woman) so they left a message and, Hermione at least, thanked the woman at the desk and they headed off to their home. Neither had seen Gregor all day, but Hermione was pulling more shifts than life itself to have paperwork done anyway, so she was at least up to date. That was until Fudge would likely drop more requests for inspection and thorough explanations like he had some sort of authority. At least she hadn't come face to face with him yet. Even the more levelheaded intellectual Hermione was, prone to reason, was a little uneasy about keeping her temper.

"It feels unnatural." Hermione said. And Bellatrix, who had been largely quiet, only made a sound as if shoving an explanation but really not caring to hear one at all. "I haven't got to worry about you forgetting to fill the water dish tonight."

"Move on, Granger."

"I'm so glad you can call something your family and this is how you mourn it."

She couldn't hear it, but if she'd been able to there would have been an audible twang. The bowstring had been zinged. It had not snapped yet, but this subject was the touchiest of all.

"This is a conversation we will not be having, because you will not speak with me about how I feel about my family."

"You know, I've gotten to the point where I think 'you will not speak with me' no longer applies." Hermione snapped, and did something she had never dared to do before. She shoved Bellatrix at the shoulder. It wasn't harsh, not toppling, nor strong, but it was a firm, solid push.

She stood there in a silence that would have driven most mad, staring, but the unnatural widening of her eyes hadn't happened. There was only that weary, dead expression, exhaustion so palpable it might have sapped the strength from her bones.

And it occurred.

"Oh my god," Hermione started, stopped, plucked at the shoulder of Bellatrix's blazer to feel as if the material was real, as if the woman was still a tangible human being who could possibly be alive. "Oh my god, you're upset."

"Upset is for schoolgirls and infants. I am just trying to tell you that you've no place to discuss how I emote about what I consider my 'family'."

"Is this emoting, then? Are you emoting? I mean, good lord, is this the particular nature of emoting for your sort of structural upper-class upbringing? I thought you'd lost that. Unless perhaps-"

"I'm not a textbook," snarled Bellatrix, "stop reading me like one."

"Right. Sorry. Honestly, it was- sorry."

For what seemed an entire afternoon they were quiet. At one mistaken point Hermione had swung one way and Bellatrix the other and they had incidentally brushed fingers, and while Hermione was about to apologize in clumsy, Hermione fashion she wondered about the light squeeze of pressure that clamped to her hand. Then she looked down and realized the older woman was squeezing her hand, walking as calmly as one pleased.

"Are we going to talk about this?" Hermione asked.

To which Bellatrix said quite casually, warning tones inching into her voice, "No."

* * *

"Not in the least?" Hermione persisted. But neither had let go, not even when Bellatrix's definition of the small gesture was to practically claw her knuckles open. Hermione didn't audibly complain. Didn't say a word. Though this had felt as natural as she was slightly uncomfortable with, but to imagine a modicum of willing affection from Bellatrix that wasn't either peripheral or utterly fleeting was too mind-blowing. She felt the sudden need to drink.

"That counts as attempting to talk about it. Don't. I know this is very hard for you to force through your excessively thick skull, which is eighty percent skull and twenty percent brain, but sometimes you just have to take things as they are and stop trying to enrage the person who doesn't want to discuss them."

"So, are you going to-"

Hermione held up their hands, somehow direly confused and utterly flustered by the sight. She then glanced at the cobblestone pavement before them, the one that created the way to the town they had spent innumerable hours in. Bellatrix shrugged her shoulders, looking bored and mildly as though the idea of thinking on a larger scale repulsed her.

"I don't particularly seem to care. Do you?"

"Well, I mean, if you-"

The other let go quicker than possible, and Hermione didn't know if it was her imagination, but that scrape of the nails seemed almost spiteful. She flexed her fingers and rolled her wrist, flesh finally regaining its coloring.

"I guess circulation is a thing of the past."

"Let us get this over with. I don't want to deal with my old feathered housemate longer than I have to."

* * *

"Kerk!"

If Bellatrix had winced any harder, disinterestedly glancing around the bookshop, she might have nearly made a visible expression. No one had ever, ever, informed Hermione, it seemed, that her jittery propositioning was practically transparent. She knew the girl wasn't a bad liar. She was a clever one, in fact, cunning, so why the nerves?

As though he had been shocked with a sharp zap Kerk Macdonald jolted from his shelf and his eyes lingered on the perpetually unlikely pair, Hermione's hand raised awkwardly in a congenial hello. The poor boy had grown particularly weary of the exciting life, as it was. He had lived several months right beneath the noses of his family's supposed enemies and been forced to stay an owl for far too long. Now he only wanted quiet.

It was not that he did not like Hermione Granger. Alright, perhaps he didn't care for her much, either. Bellatrix was an admittedly insufferable burden, but he at least liked the Gryffindor a particular slice more than Bellatrix. He had seen their truest selves, though, when they did not think anyone was watching. And perhaps one was not that much more pleasant than the other.

"We at the Ministry of Magic have an occupation that would become a career path and pay more handsomely than living above and working in a bookshop far older than time itself. Perhaps they would stop hounding you about your truthfulness as well. Granted, they haven't very much become lenient on me, but genocide and transfiguration tricks, there's a chasm between those I assume. Now accept this noble, generous job offer to organize a batty old has-been's papers or prepare to be forcefully persuaded."

"No. No," Hermione turned to Bellatrix immediately, her face an utter mask of total disappointment, a slight cocktail with a measure of incredulity, _"No. _Yes, we would like to extend to you a job offer. No, we would not like to 'forcefully persuade' you. Ignore that."

"However, say 'yes' so she will complain less about her workload. And also to prove you are not in league with your repugnant family of terminally diseased canines any longer."

Hermione reached out, swiftly slapped a hand over Bellatrix's mouth- or tried to, but she swatted it away with the rapid smack of a hand. So instead she merely applied a casual _Silencio _and watched the older woman's eyes widen to massive size. Bellatrix went to speak but that foul voice had been muted, and instead went about kicking and throwing the poor, unsuspecting books from their shelves. Kerk watched in his own form of the silencing spell- a deep, absolute desire not to be assaulted by Bellatrix.

A copy of _Winged Beasts of Scotland _sailed over his head and crashed into a shelf, fluttering wildly about, the belts in its spine undone.

"You have to agree and do this for us, please, please. You have to agree quite quickly because they've killed our Cat and I just know you've got the know-how and the intellect to help us get to the bottom of this. Kerk, it's more than imperative, it is me asking you for a favor. Not offering you anything. Asking you for a genuine favor. And you must say yes, and very soon, in fact right now, because if she can't sound off her bloody infuriating little jibes and quips she's going to destroy your entire store. Please. _Please." _

"Alright! Alright!" He yelled, waving his hands wildly, "Alright! I'll take it! Just take that copy of the _Monster Book of Monsters _out of her hands!"

Hermione did so quickly, snatching it as she flicked her wand. The room filled with Bellatrix's predictable roar and she sharply kicked Hermione right in the knee, stabbing a finger at her chest, "THE GALL OF SUCH AN ARROGANT LITTLE CREATURE-"

"Thank you so much, Kerk. It would be fantastic if you would meet us tomorrow at nine AM and we'll inform you on how to get to the Ministry. It's going to be great working with you." A few quick swishes and the volumes and books locked up tight, the wild ones quieting, the horrid mess retreating as if to return to slumbering on the shop's shelves. The boy looked around in wonderment, and finally his particularly exhausted black eyes settled on Hermione once the initial shock of all this excitement had worn off.

On their way out, Bellatrix pulled a book plainly off a shelf and let it drop to the floor, the frustrating THUD interfering with the bell's exit-announcing tinkle. The door shook in its frame and Kerk Macdonald, repeatedly drawn into unwilling situations, sighed again.


	25. Yeah, I Was Right All Along

"You know I don't do well exposed to those I don't particularly enjoy the company of."

Hermione sauntered over from the counter reading the front page of The Daily Prophet, a piece of toast dangling from between her teeth. She bit down and took it in hand, settling in the chair across from Bellatrix who was spending the morning glancing about like a paranoid beast. There was unease behind her eyes, and Hermione wondered if she was aware of its transparency. The loss of their furry housemate was felt, and it was there in how Bellatrix could not quell looking around for her.

Hm, how interesting. And how set in routine Bellatrix had become. Hermione noted it and nibbled slowly through the crispy bits of her breakfast, elbows on the table. This constantly made her housemate scowl, and it brought her some sense of small satisfaction, "Stop talking about yourself like a dog. Are you quite aware you do that? If not, you should really just not do it altogether. 'I don't do well'. You belong in a psychiatric ward but I am not it. So just say it without pretense. 'I don't like him and I don't feel like I want to be around him'."

"I don't like him and I don't want to be around him." She skipped the 'I feel' altogether. Hermione filed another mental note and reached forth for the last cut of bacon, though it was snatched and destroyed just as she touched it by an obviously vindictive Bellatrix.

"Entirely too bad. I don't comprehend what you have against him."

"He was a spy who lived in our house!"

"You are a psychotic who lives in our house. I don't complain about your company." Hermione remarked pointedly and poured them both two cups of tea once the kettle whistled.

"You are astoundingly naive-" Hermione's gaze was entirely cross when Bellatrix stood partially, those nails gouging deep into the wood. One could tell which seat habitually had been hers. It was right in front of the clawed indents at the edge of the table. She seemed to quiet a bit at the searing gaze, the indication that it was too early to begin their morning with a throbbing headache after a good old fashioned Bellatrix meltdown. Those were still frequent, but they had lessened. "How did you win a war with this attitude?"

"Because one survives longer, I have found, with calm and quick thinking than passion and overreaction. The boy deserves as much a chance as you. -Don't scoff at me."

"You completely abandon the reason for my second chance."

"I don't abandon if as much as I believe its truth is you just don't want to be imprisoned any longer. And that isn't something I'll disagree with. The Muggle judicial system is far more understanding. While prisons aren't precisely hotels, they're more humane than life sucking creatures in cells the size of janitorial closets. I value rehabilitation over punishment. We didn't win this war to let ourselves become tyrants." Had Bellatrix been anyone else she would have realized and understood the impressive nature by which Hermione Granger seemed to live. She was, at the very very least, grateful for the child's boundless belief in goodness. It had gotten her off a rather sharp hook, after all. "You were never one for a cage. Not with your mind, your aptitude. What a waste you are in a cage."

"That was almost militant of you. Impressive."

"There isn't anything militant about believing that everyone deserves an opportunity to put into the world the best of their gifts. Like you have often said, and much like I've been witness to, yours are too extraordinary to waste shut up in a room."

"Are you absolutely sure you've finished pandering? I've got a couple things I think you've missed. The color of my eyes and the rather magnificent nature of my incredibly intriguing temperament, not to mention how very striking my face is. My excellent taste in wardrobe, my well-defined cheekbones inherited of naturally superb breeding. My phenomenal ability for memory and brilliant learning curve-"

"Alright," Hermione piped up, slightly pink in the cheeks, "alright. That's quite it."

Bellatrix rolled her dark eyes, smirking pleasantly at the display of embarrassment. As she got up to leave the breakfast table altogether she entwined a hand in Hermione's thick mass of chestnut curls, leaning in to murmur, "Granger's the little teacher's pet."

* * *

When they finally got to the Ministry (a world Kerk was brand new to, with his dark, glittering eyes and his jittery expressions, his nervous hands shoved all the way in the pockets of his ill-fitting, too-short, clearly-borrowed slacks) Bellatrix had calmed some and was, instead, disregarding Kerk altogether.

"Our offices are run by Gregor Townsend, who you'll be meeting with once we arrive. It's him you'll be assisting, after all. He needs it more than any of us. Poor man isn't very order-inclined."

"He's a wasteful old has-been of a wizard shoved to the back of beyond more than likely to prevent possible damage or humiliation. That is what she meant to say."

"Is it... what you meant to say?" Kerk asked unsurely, his toes pointing toward one another, legs bent a bit at the knees.

"No. It is not what I meant to say. And perhaps Madame Black should keep her rude, elitist opinion out of everyone else's facts where it isn't wanted."

"I'm deeply offended." Bellatrix growled, but as usual wouldn't deign to do a thing else about it. She had barely even made an effort to look at either of her companions at all.

"She isn't really. That's just become her favorite thing to say. Like a very annoying catchphrase."

He knew she wasn't actually offended. But Kerk didn't think it prudent to remind them that he knew most of their habits far better than they did.

The blinds around Gregor's office were drawn tight, and within one couldn't see an ounce of light to be found.

"Sir?" Hermione called in gently, confused and concerned, and she eased open the door just enough.

"Aye- Her-Hermione. Come in. Just- Jus' yeh."

The room itself had the feel of a funeral and Gregor sat with his elbow pushed against the desk, his hand forcefully straining against his hair as though the tightness of the motion kept him grounded to the world. She clicked the door gently shut behind her and when she noticed the large man's eyes they were bloodshot and watery, framed yet still by tears.

"A foal, lass, a wee one, a lil babe, a _foal." _His glasses sat atop the desk and seemed to look up at her, strange things she had almost believed could not be removed from his face. She stared at them for a moment and then sat down hesitantly across from him.

"Sir..."

"There innit worse'n killin' something pure as a unicorn, but a foal? One that hadn't even grown his horn in yet, Hermione, jus' a wee little thing-"

"That's the most atrocious thing I have ever heard."

"Hermione, Fudge is going ta put this on 'er. And I believe in what we do here as much as the next wizard but maybe it'd be in yer best interests ta get her away from 'ere."

"No." Hermione said firmly, and before she knew it she reached for his hand, gripping it in hers with a raise of an eyebrow. "No. Absolutely not. If he wants me to play his game I will fairly play it and I will certainly win it. We will not stoop to tactics that could condemn this entirely. No."

He made a great, increasingly wet sound, one that meant obviously he had been crying for some time, and it sounded very uncomfortable in his nose. But Gregor Townsend was a very kind man, one who cared about his job on a level that meant more than counting the galleons he was paid in. He'd become something similar to fond of Bellatrix. She could be less as mirthless as a Centaur missing a hind leg and as vicious as a Three-Headed Dog who had just been neutered, but Bellatrix's reasonable capacity for creatures and her more than enthusiastic field record had swayed his opinion. Somehow, placed forth to settle Centaur property disputes, Unicorn poaching, arguments between Gnomes and Goblins, and even the occasional rogue Acromantula she had handled each one with little complaint. No creature human or human-like would say she was a friendly ball of sunshine when asked about her service, but there had been less incident than he had seen in a long time.

He remembered her from Hogwarts, when he had been much younger than he felt now and much older than he was then. When he had been too serious and slightly somber as a boy who grew up with a large army of brothers, all of them bigger than him, he the youngest of five. Gregor Townsend had been the kind, gentle, soft-spoken child of the family, sorted into Hufflepuff for his admiration of loyalty, his swift capacity for thinking outside the box, and his proclivity for kindness. And he remembered a girl named Bellatrix Black who could be as cruel, cunning, and calm as she was brilliant, curious, and clever beyond measure. Somehow, with that in the back of his mind and Hermione's utter sincerity (and Kingsley's convincing, almost inspiring attitude) she deserved the position she had earned, and she deserved, furthermore, to keep it.

"I'll try all I can to keep him clear, Hermione," his accent had retreated, the calm returning to his deep, shuddering tones, "but there's so little we can do."

She let go of his hand after he had given hers a small, paternal squeeze, frown inlaid so deep in her face her lips felt like a totally straight line, "I know, sir. This has become a muddled mess."

She opened the door finally to let the two in. And for a moment Hermione peered out, because there seemed to be a problem there.

There were not two any longer. Because now there was only one.

"They—They took her to another floor. I don't—I don't know where." Panic lit up Kerk's face, a maddened sort of sweaty, frantic fright that he did not know how to express any way but in trembling gasps and tugging nervously to loosen his tie. "No one said anything to her but she just went and she listened, she did, and she went with her nose right in the air like—"

Hermione gripped him by the shoulders, shook him so drastically his brain was rattling momentarily in his head.

"Where. Did. They. _Say." _

It was not a question. It was a slicing insistence.

"_BOY."_ Gregor barked. Kerk's focus returned swift as a gazelle leaping across a field, those very alien eyes of his two tremendous black mirrors. "Answer the question. Where's Madame Black?!"

"I don't know, I really—I really don't know." He had begun to shudder, small tears forming at the corners of his eyes. Confrontation tied his stomach up in tight knots, and he wrung his hands fearfully in front of him, "I tried to tell them to stop but she told me not to and I—she knew, she knew what she was doing."

"She wouldn't—"

"No." Hermione cut off quickly, and there was a grave discomfort in her tone, "She wouldn't, not what you're thinking. No. She's playing fair."

And nothing had ever frightened Hermione more.

* * *

"Lestrange-"

_"Black," _Bellatrix scowled darkly, "I've told you, I go by _Black."_

She hated this. It made her fingers curl immediately into fists. But, she reminded herself, freedom was freedom with a price when you'd been naughty. She kept Granger's words closely in her head, repetitive, assured; _don't throw this away on an angry mistake._

"Your surname doesn't change any of- what you are!"

"No, but it's fairly inconsequential, seeing as I have divorced my dead husband. There's reasoning for surnames. After all, I don't get off calling you Cornelius Arsehole, do I?"

He'd lost most of his hair, the old buzzard, and the thinning grey comb over concealed a shiny bald head, the likes of which was bright red. Cornelius Fudge had been a man disgraced, but through the good graces of a few influential members, he somehow had managed to scramble back to occupy a seat in the Ministry. He was as hard to keep away as a cockroach was to kill.

"You've been in a lot of shady goings on, Lestrange-"

"-_Black-"_

He waved it off entirely and continued, "-and there is no reason one cannot conclude that your new position here isn't for your own twisted benefit."

"Much like yours is, Fudge?"

"No! There is a difference! For one, I did not massacre hundreds!"

"I'll not apologize for my actions. You didn't seem too eager to apologize for yours when you bumbled everything like a blithering duffer and got scores of Muggles killed in refusal to comply with our Dark Lord. You're just standing on the prettier side of the fence, aren't you?"

"If you're not doing a thing besides jabbering at me, I've got ways to get something out of you."

Her eyes slipped over to the bag that sat beside his chair. She had complied with his fool's crusade, his stupid reasoning. She'd let the Aurors who seemed uncomfortable and terrified, haul her to this room. She'd even taken in her surroundings, right down to the ordinary magical bag. It seemed unassuming enough- but she tensed, her spine rigid as a predator who sensed a dangerous threat. Hermione had a bag just like it, and the charm on it- what was he keeping in there? Did he plan to cut her head off? Did he have some ungodly sort of instrument within?

It was much worse.

First it had emerged as a thin, bedraggled strip of black. The grotesque cloth was sliced into tears, the edges of an old cloak. Its hooded visage emerged next, its massive, tall body shrouded in the blackened robes of death itself. The air seemed to retreat from the room, sucked out completely, and its thin, slimy hand was extended, slathered in ashen scabs. The creature finally ascended completely from the recesses of the darkened bag, hovering between Fudge and Bellatrix alike, a cruel shadow of a starved monster suspended in air.

Bellatrix let out a shrill scream, the likes of which none had ever truly heard from her, and flung herself into the corner with her hands clapped over her mouth. She felt her back bump repeatedly against the wall, scrabbling for escape, but the creature floated closer. It stunk of death and suffering. Of captivity. Of hopeless years in eternal nothingness. Fear tasted rancid in her throat, and suddenly she was light, unpleasantly light, despairing in a place deeper than she had felt in years.

She clung, shut her eyes. _The first time she had ever held Draco in her arms, and his fuzzy shock of platinum baby hair. The first time she had ever done a hex correctly, and how James Ronaldo couldn't quit burping up slugs. Andromeda hugging her tight, small, fragile, delicate, cheering loudly, HAPPY BIRTHDAY BELLA! Tom Riddle's eyes, wise, clever, alight __**I can give you power. **__The Siamese cat brushing against her ankles, its very contained purr. __**Just because you have ceased to care about you doesn't mean everyone else has. **__Rodolphus, how handsome he'd been when she'd just seen him, a prince, a hollow trophy she could display, her father and her mother, so proud of her, so proud. __**I just want to be left alone. I just want to be quiet.**_

She felt these things bleeding out of her skin as she cried, as she shivered. She could not stop the hemorrhage of blissful memories seeping from her pores, and she beat the wall furiously with her fists, sobbing and screaming in equal parts. The creature had curled its fingers in a seeming display of delight, and she eventually degenerated into clawing at her own chest, shredding at the wound that had only just begun to scab. Unicorn wounds were not simple to heal. They festered and lingered for some time. She wanted to keep the happiness. She had taken it for granted and now she could no longer release it. She tried so hard to hold. Anything, anything, anything but the emptiness.

She tore the gash with great ferocity. She would die if she had to. She had to get away. _A cup of hot chocolate on her desk, blindly smoking, hot as coals. Little marshmallows poorly arranged into some disgusting excuse for a cheerful face. A note. __**It's much too cold in there. I left a space heater next to your desk. If you plan to run off, wear a jacket. **__Stupid Hermione and her humanistic attitude, that idiotic old fool of a Scot and his hot chocolate._ These things exited through her every patch of flesh, and she'd eventually scratched so deep at the wound that it was raw, gaping at the edges, weeping dribbles of deep red. She couldn't breathe. Her mind was filling up.

The painful moments came. They began, unbidden. _**How could she marry a Mudblood?! Hasn't she learned anything from us, Cissy?! **__Her first failure to To- the Dark Lord, her punishment. __**CRUCIO! **__And the way she felt it each time after, every time she misbehaved (which was often, always often, awful Bellatrix, willful, a servant and a jackal at once). The wracking agony as it shredded through her, and how some nights she woke, and the burn imbedded in her bones even now. Shackles biting into her. Azkaban. Dementors, Dementors, Dementors. Suffering. Greyback's glinting yellow teeth, Granger bloodied and whimpering. __**I'd just like her on my side, is all. Don't you think she'd make an interesting addition? **__Fear. Cold jabs of it. __**They'll kill you if they find you. **__The blurry edges of her vision, the sound her body would have made as it thudded dully to the ground. Hermione. And how she could not remedy this. How she was helpless. How helplessness did not fit her, how it was an ill-tailored suit. How she could fail the one person so adamant about keeping her free, a failure she would otherwise never tolerate from herself._

Somewhere in a deeper distance the door to the room flew open, and held back only by two guards and the sheer will to contain her homicidal urge was Hermione Granger. Fudge immediately scampered aside as she spit and hollered, muted suddenly by the sight of Bellatrix Black weeping heartily, her eyes smudged with inky eyeliner, her fingers weakly digging for the grotesque hole in her shoulder. It had taken the Witch what felt like an eternity to finally find them in the _Department of Magical Law Enforcement, _and this, no less, was the scene she had stumbled in on.

Bellatrix's eyes had unfocused, black as her name, black as she took her coffee, black as her sometimes heart, and the sound was inhuman. It was a pain so wrenching that Hermione flung the two away and brandished her wand, shouting an "EXPECTRO PATRONUM!" as a sudden shock of pale silver erupted from the tip. It took the form of a slender otter and rocketed directly at the Dementor. The creature shied away swiftly, and found itself chased into the bottom of Fudge's endless bag.

The chair was thrown aside and crashed over as Hermione dropped to her knees before the still-hysterical woman, earning herself more than a few painful scratches when she tried to subdue her desire to rip her own chest open. She dove to scoop Bellatrix's head into her lap, to let her feel for a substantial grip between agonized whimpers. Her entire body shook, and she sounded like a child who had just experienced the worst nightmare of her entire life, the bogeyman gripping, nipping at her ankles.

"It's okay, it's okay, shush, shush..." Hermione murmured over and over again, smoothing a palm through those wild curls tenderly, "it's alright. It's gone. I won't let it hurt you. Shush, shush, Bella, shush..."

Hermione turned that sharp, golden gaze on the former Minister. Bellatrix's heartfelt sobs had turned into background noise, and she steadied her voice, unwilling to let the anger seep into a tumultuous shake. "I want you to leave and you will never pull this again. Don't tell me if you understand. _Just don't stay long enough that I will change my peace-keeping mind, you revolting slug who dares to call yourself a man." _


	26. Put Down Your Sword and Crown

When Harry received the phone call he had just been in the midst of what felt like his ninetieth training seminar. But if Hermione was calling it was riotously imperative, so he took it, ducking out of the lecture hall to cup the receiver nervously. Except the sonic boom he expected from his best friend wasn't a shout. It wasn't more than a muted whimper, in fact.

And the weak, small mewls continued, but all he could make out was, "...Bellatrix... Dementor... Fudge..."

These were, as one would expect, all the words he needed.

"Hermione, just calm down, alright?" He whispered. And he wondered when it was the universe had gotten to so strange a place that Hermione Granger was weeping for the health of Bellatrix Black.

* * *

Harry had been exponentially thankful that he and Ron's seminar times did not coincide. The two were attached at the hip to each other's business fairly often- Harry had been splitting his time between the bleak, slightly homey quiet of Grimmauld Place and the otherwise fair chaos of the Burrow. He knew he was welcome, but the absence of Fred resounded throughout the family and there was a place inside that Harry did not quite have. He knew the Weasleys were explicitly and absolutely his family, but some things he did not share in, and largely it was the way Fred's arm on the Weasley family clock would be forever stuck at 'lost'. There was a resounding sense of loss, of grief, and Harry had been struggling harshly with the way in which he felt indirectly responsible. He was constantly reminded of how it was Harry who had been the bravest of them, the one they stood behind because they believed in him, but he remembered all those lost because of him and occasionally it did not do to surround himself with those relations.

The Creature-Induced Injury ward was easy to find. It was the first floor, after all, and just as easy was Hermione being that she was seated beside a man whose genuine bulk seemed to threaten to squeeze the arms out of his chair. He was beacon enough for Harry.

A closer look confirmed that if Hermione had been crying the tears had run out. Now her red-rimmed brown eyes were impossibly large and they seemed big enough to drink in all manner of light, reflecting the fluorescent glow of the lights above them. The Wizarding world had come to begin adapting some Muggle technologies, engineered by a few brilliant Wizards, and one of the first was rather bright lightbulbs.

He slipped a bit closer until the huge gentleman with the ill-matched suit no longer blocked his scrawnier self, and Hermione blinked so quickly it was animal. Within moments the tears replaced themselves, and Harry was bowled over by a set of arms desperately seeking to cling 'round his neck.

"Harry!" She croaked, but she didn't let go. He was thankful for their very menial height difference, and they both stood there feeling more grounded than either had in a long time. "Harry, Harry, I've been an absolute _failure!"_

"Hermione, it's alright. I'm here. Are you hurt? What happened?"

"Let the little lass sit quiet and I'll explain it. She deserves not to have to tell it again." Hermione reluctantly detached from her best friend, took a seat beside her boss who looked at Harry with less friendliness than she was used to seeing him greet people with. But she was sure the stress was pressing on him, so she had decided to let him speak. "Cornelius bloody Fudge tried a bit of an underhanded tactic and swiped Madame Black when he knew she wasn't being supervised by either of us. Gave a poor innocent lad a fright, and tossed a Dementor on Madame Black. Could've been a Boggart for all we know, but she hasn't made a peep since tryin' to thrash herself stupid. She's-"

"Catatonic," Hermione interjected. It was clear that her nerves had kicked in, and as helpful as Gregor was trying to be Harry knew that waiting did not make for a comfortable Hermione. She was a woman of results, hands-on planning, of informed decision-making. "Catatonic is the word. She's gone completely blank."

He shuddered a bit, busily adjusting his glasses in a way he had found he did whenever he felt uncomfortable. Dementors. Things he did not particularly want to remember, either, but the concept of Bellatrix being affected by them dug at him in the strangest way. He recalled easily feeling as though he would never be happy again, but remembering that, it meant Bellatrix had a happiness to take away. It meant that somewhere inside her were warm memories seated themselves, ones that might have been larger than her usual gleefully painted bloody canvas. It meant that somewhere inside that rotten, tired, sallow shell Bellatrix Black had a soul.

"I told her- I told her as long as she tried I would, too. It had to be an equal exchange. As long as she put forth her best self I would do the same. And now I've- I've gone and failed, and she's-"

"'Mione. _'Mione." _This world was spinning too fast. Honestly, he wanted to get off, but its maddening twirl had riled Hermione into this deadly gravitational pull and Bellatrix had gripped some part of her tight. He found it hard to look her in the eyes, in fact, and see where this fretful sincerity was pouring forth, "Bellatrix has always been, throughout our lives and as of late, as incurable as a terminal illness. I don't think there's anywhere she'll be going anytime soon. You didn't fail anyone. In fact, you've been succeeding better than I think any of us ever thought you would with this matter."

"I looked at her, Harry." Hermione's voice shook again, and inside its weakening tones were the sounds of another onslaught of sobs. "I looked at her and there wasn't anyone at all looking back."

He took a seat in the chair beside her, feeling suddenly like his bones were lines with lead. He knew that look, he thought. He had seen it here and there with Sirius. It was the absence of sanity and the presence of emptiness. Anyone who thought emptiness was hollow had never seen it in its truth. Emptiness was fuller and thicker than the blood in a body. It filled someone to the brim so totally that there was no room for anything but such nothingness. Emptiness was not the way a person could be recovered, but the way a person could be a closed-up hollow. There he felt an ounce of sympathy (mostly for Hermione's distress), and he let out a sigh, "This will sort itself out. It's going to be fine."

"Oh, I don't think it is, Harry," Hermione murmured. When he saw her fingers tremble at the arm of her seat he placed his hand atop them, the edges of his skin resting gently against her knuckles, "I don't think it ever will be again."

* * *

It had been several hours before anyone was allowed to visit. Harry had to return before suspicion arose about his whereabouts (did the Weasleys ever need at least one cell phone) and, to be frank, he did not think he had even the courage in him to see Bellatrix in this state. Something about it felt perverse, almost too intimate. He bade Hermione goodbye with the tightest hug he could manage and promised he would be checking back, his entire expression very serious. It wasn't five minutes out before he found himself drowning in the torrential downpour of doubt, writhing to surface over waves of confusion. Hermione had wept over Bellatrix. Hermione had shed convulsive, gut-wrenching tears over Bellatrix. Something about her had wormed its way inside his best friend, and a part of him was outrageously perturbed. How much had she changed, if Hermione could act this way? And how?

The Creature-Induced Injury ward was a quiet place, fairly dull, and for a moment, when Hermione surfaced the thought, it struck her that somewhere in that hospital were also Neville's parents. Those very people Bellatrix had shattered. What poetic justice this all was.

"Miss Granger? Miss Black is stable, but her condition is... delicate. Just tread lightly."

Gregor and Hermione both glanced up with lightning speed at the nurse and Kerk, who had fallen asleep in his chair, stirred when his new boss's large elbow encroached on his space. The Scottish Wizard gave Hermione an approving look, as though permitting her that it wasn't abandonment, and combed his hands through his beard idly.

Hermione could not get in there fast enough.

* * *

The room had clearly been intended for two people. It was spacious enough to very well fit six, but every other space was empty. She was relieved to see they had done as she told them to and scooted the bed against the wall. Bellatrix would not get a wink of sleep otherwise, on the off-chance she did something but remain excruciatingly awake.

The ex-Death Eater looked worse than Hermione had ever seen her, first meeting included. Her eyes were dim, distant, and on her pallid face her lips were much too bright. Those inky coils turned and twisted into one another, but they remained limp, and practically untouchable. An enormous piece of gauze had been taped over her injured flesh, the cotton already bloodied a cherry red. She could see the frayed, wounded edges where Bella had tried to widen the chasm.

She said nothing to Hermione. Not as the mattress creaked. Not as the bed moved. She just sat there with her back to the wall, her hands lying flat against the sheets. Puffy, formless scars raised, one across each wrist. Hermione recognized them and felt a pang of guilt. The scars of captivity.

"How are you feeling?" she asked softly, and sidled against the other so their arms touched, shoulders grazing.

Still no answer.

"I'm going to kill Fudge, you know. I'm not even going to have him arrested for assault or intent to murder. I'm going to old-fashioned Muggle-strangle him to death for what he did to you."

Nothing. Those fingers twitched for a moment, a sign that there was still a person behind those eyes. Embedded into her cuticles were traces of Hermione's blood, little smears of chocolate milk brown that had dried and caked there. Her chest rose and fell, and at the juncture between that and her shoulder Hermione watched each time the lump of material rose with it, leaving small glimpses of bloodied, meaty injury. It was enough to make most sick, but she knew Bellatrix well enough to know that a slice or a cut was only skin-deep.

"We're clipping your nails. I figured this would be the perfect time to tell you- since you don't seem to have a say in it."

Silence.

Hermione sat up on her knees, pressing a soft kiss to the raven-haired woman's temple. She brushed aside a lock of that unruly hair to do so, tucking it behind an ear, and placed her hand gently to that slender neck. "Don't send me a post-card from wherever you are. Just come back soon. I'll be here waiting."

* * *

Suddenly, Hermione was dragged from sleep.

"I felt nothing at all."

Groggy and confused, she found Bellatrix Black several feet from her, her arms gathered around her knees. In the faintest glow of the wand beside her she looked innocent, absolved of her prior sins. It was both startling and strange. Hermione sat up slowly, overwhelmingly relieved, and she wondered if touching this faded image would smear the paint.

"How... are you?"

"Bloody awful." she spat darkly, but breezed past the question with uncaring ease. "I'm sure now everyone has the idea that I'm some sort of pitiful whiner."

"Bellatrix-"

The eldest Black recoiled from the touch with a deepening scowl, resting her chin atop her knees sulkily. "You've still got my mascara all over your perfectly ironed blouse. Don't touch me."

"I just wanted to help." Hermione insisted, "This is all my fault. I should have watched you more closely. I should have done as I promised. You are-"

"I am _your responsibility. _Does it bring you true, deep satisfaction, to know how right you were that year ago? The world is my house arrest. I am _kept _by a girl who only just recently found adulthood, who held me as I _broke down in pathetic tears. _You should have let me die, is what you should have done. You should have let Fudge's Dementor take my soul. You would have been rid of me. And I would not have to suffer the shame _of this-_"

_"Bloody hell, just admit you were frightened!" _In days gone by that would have earned Hermione a sharp, stinging punch, a slap, perhaps a bruising shove. But right then Bellatrix could only look on exhaustedly as that statement did not end Hermione's tirade, "I broke down the door to that room and you were _sobbing, _shaking, _screaming! _Such a damned sound that I thought it might never, ever leave me! Such a sound I thought, if I had let you go I would have fallen asleep each and every night alone to that _horrible _scream! You spent fifteen joyless _damned _years suffering that creature and even for a guiltless, merciless murderer the punishment you endured in Azkaban was inhumane! Even dogs get to love their masters... even dogs get to _love! _So for goodness sake, drop your tirelessly ungrateful attitude and just _tell me you were scared!"_

For once, Bellatrix felt it cruel to push the argument further. Guilt tasted wrong when she swallowed it.

"Clever little Patronus you've got." her voice was soft, and she touched at the wound in her own flesh. She was waiting patiently for the displeased frustration to leave Hermione's face, and slowly it did. "I cannot say I even remember my own, if I had one. I haven't had much need to conjure it in years."

"You need to fill yourself up with happy memories for it to be successful. Or at least one happy thought or feeling. I don't expect you to be able to reach that level of positive concentration."

"I have happy memories. I knew they were there when the bloody Dementor started sucking them out of me."

"But did you know beforehand?"

The silence blanketed.

She swallowed.

"Yes," Bellatrix admitted, and held her head up high, a Queenly arrogance, "Yes, alright? Just because I don't run about embracing everyone doesn't mean I do not maintain pleasant feelings."

"Careful. Someone might hear you." Hermione chided, and for a blessed moment they felt normal. "What time is it?"

"Fucked if I have a clue. I've only just remembered my name. Find a more reliable source for that question."

In the faintest dark Hermione reached out, and she was thankful when Bellatrix allowed her to curl her fingers around the older woman's loosely, to hold a hand between them as though the gap needed to be comfortably bridged, "It's remarkable that you're so clear in such a small amount of time."

"I went into shock. A matter of self-preservation. It isn't as if I haven't ever done it before this incident. Perhaps in situations where it called for me to be a bit more subtle, but certainly things less severe than a soul-sucking bastard of a creature. Nothing more than a faltering weakness of the mind, a staggering desire not to cope. Disgusting. I'll be drinking relatively soon. I feel sufficiently tainted."

Even deprived of comfortable sleeping positions and suffering a crying headache like no other, Hermione did not miss the presence of the phrase 'I feel' in Bellatrix's speech. It felt (how ironic) like some minor amount of development. She cracked her neck to one side, then the other, rolling her shoulders as though that would dispel the stiffness. It didn't.

"Would you mind if I stayed here?" Hermione asked, sounding more unsure than any adult had a right to.

"Are you going to be particularly reluctant to part with me at any costs, now?" Bellatrix countered, but to be honest there was a sincere weariness in her tone. It sounded as though she had been asked to solve the world's most difficult math problem with a hangover. "Just don't keep me up."

A sharp nail tapped the edge of her wand and Bellatrix slid it calmly beside her, assured the instrument was tucked just out of sight but she could be certain of where it was. The light at the tip faded into darkness and Hermione leaned against a sharp, bony shoulder. She let her eyes slide shut with a new sensation of comfort she had been blindly swiping at for hours. "If I incidentally touch where you're hurt, wake me and I'll move."

Hermione wasn't sure if she could hear discomfort in Bellatrix's tone when she spoke, but she was certain it was there, "The first moment you cause me irritation I'm throwing you directly out of this pitiful slab of stone."


	27. Why Don't Ya Show Me Little Bit of Spine

Pssst. Everyone go to Tumblr user NoPantsParade and follow them. They've been illustrating bits of this fanfic and are all around genuinely unbearably awesome. Go go go look and be sad Cat's dead.

* * *

When Hermione Granger woke Bellatrix seemed to have been up for hours, and it did not go unappreciated that she remained with her head comfortably in the older woman's lap. The peculiarity of all this had become alarmingly apparent to her- especially when she tiredly forced open her eyes and Bellatrix was glancing down at her, taking in every bit as though she was a curious animal sniffing around a new species. "Good morning," she said, sounding astoundingly calm for this proximity, "Kingsley Shacklebolt wishes to see us."

"How-" Hermione tried to begin, but scrambled to sit up, straightening her now very wrinkled, disheveled clothing and her completely uncontrolled hair. With great relief she noticed a few extra articles of clothing folded neatly on a chair by the door, "How are you... feeling?"

"Fine. No one dared to monitor me in the dead of night so I suppose that would be your allowance to remain past visiting hours. Hoot-hoot brought you a change of things so that it doesn't appear as though you chose a hospital for a precarious one night stand. Get to it. You look a grotesque fright."

For once, Hermione thought, it was nice to see Bellatrix back to her old ways. The new knowledge she was carrying felt strange, and when the older woman shakily stood from the bed to make her way to the facilities Hermione had to smother a small smile. _There were things there in her head that made her happy. There were things that she held dear. Every day, even if it did not mean she was always thinking of them selflessly or if she was not inclined to emotion, somewhere inside Bellatrix was a capacity for happiness that had been there all along. A very very important sign of humanity._

"There's no bloody fucking toothpaste and the inside of my mouth tastes as though it is the Forbidden Forest all over again and I have been scavenging delicious carcass. What sort of place heals people but does not think to make them feel normal upon waking? That's a particularly important part of the process. Not beginning the day in a fashion most unpleasant."

"I know you're going to-"

"No. If you suggest it, I am halting this entire operation altogether with extreme gusto. I just know it. We are not going to talk about a thing. Talking is for bookkeepers and tedious humans. I refuse to become or associate with either and should you 'talk' on that matter I will take you for one of them and call this- I suppose the most accurate phrase is 'quits'."

"Quits, I slept in your bed with you as well and neither of us impaled the others or quits, you refuse to allow it to happen ever again?"

There was a silence for a moment as Bellatrix leaned back from the bathroom doorway, hair partially combed in untamed masses, to scowl at Hermione and accusingly point a hairbrush toward her, "That was brass-balled of you, Granger. Would you fancy a cuddle, then?"

"Oh, shut up." Hermione sighed, but this banter was so teenage she could not really argue for anything else. She did not know its strict definition, and truth be told it had not before occurred to her, but this was a textbook example of flirtatious behavior. "Was it Kerk who told you we were wanted by the Minister?"

One beat. Two beats. Three. Only the sound of the sink running and Bellatrix's small groans of displeasure with the otherworldly thickness of her hair. Another few seconds. More.

"Bellatrix!" Hermione called out.

"What?" She replied innocently, "I was only shutting up."

* * *

Once they had spent a sufficient chunk of time arguing furiously over the use of the bathroom for changing purposes and made their way out (the hospital was more than enthusiastic to get rid of Bellatrix now that she wasn't taking up space with all the functions of a paperweight. If she was walking and talking and no longer their problem that was all that mattered), it was the blasted Muggle mobile that shattered their otherwise decent silence. Hermione's tampering had been more than beneficial. The Wizarding World was exhaustively lacking in immediate communication and it just wouldn't do. With a convicted war criminal chained to her ankle? No, no. She needed to have an immediate way to talk to someone else, anyone else.

"YOU'RE IN THE BLOODY HOSPITAL?!"

Her ear almost frantically fled from her head to escape the sound and she winced, stuck. Because the voice on the other end was not Harry.

It was Ron.

"My best mate- _my_ best mate is in the damn hospital and no one saw fit to say anything to me?!"

"Ron!" came Harry's familiar tone, a thankful shout that somewhat settled Hermione's nerves. And now they were frozen solid in the Ministry's lobby and Bellatrix was impatiently tapping her heel a few feet away, monitoring Hermione with that same look they'd woken up with. Harry sounded again, louder, "Ron! It wasn't her in hospital!"

A loud sound, one that made Hermione wonder if it was a shove or practically a punch, "Bugger off, Harry! No! I want to hear from her why she thought it was aces to treat me like we're strangers on the damn street!"

"As if _I_ have treated _you_ like a 'stranger on the damn street, Ronald?" Her voice was raising, but it was not there yet, and it felt like they were children all over again, and there she was, accused, accused-

Until a hand delicately plucked the phone from her grip and grabbed the device, holding it at its corner as though pressing it to her eat had the potential to contaminate her face. "Weasel!" She barked sharply into the mouthpiece, and did not even chance a glance to the subdued anger smoldering in Hermione's eyes, "I was in hospital, not Granger! So for Merlin's sakes mature a couple decades. Do you particularly care about the state of my well being?"

"No- you- you bloody wretched old hag! If you hadn't taken 'Mione hostage-"

"I didn't take anyone hostage, you dim-witted little ingrate. If anyone took anyone else hostage it was the other way around. Now if you would be so kind as to set the blame in its most deserving lap we could all get on with our lives. Mend this bullshit so I can stop listening to her incessant moping over you and how bloody fucking complex this has all gotten. I am an extra human being within her life, not a gradually morphing parasite. You idiots survived a war, now learn how to survive life."

Without another moment's patience she smashed the 'end' button and carelessly tossed the phone back at Hermione, who was staring as though she could not find an emotion between frustrated and quietly relieved.

She noticed it day after day, more and more with each passing moment. Bellatrix was horrible. She was cruel, uncontrollable, rude, lacked people skills and acted in a fashion that would have humiliated her parents. But that was just it, Hermione often reasoned. She did not any longer seek approval. She did not die for a man who swore her everlasting power. She did not prance or curtsy or win favors to impress her family. She did not feign social airs for a husband she had no interest in whatsoever. Bellatrix Black was the purest self she could be, undiluted, and without anyone to answer to the more she became a smart, talented woman with an expert stubborn streak and a reluctance to please anyone. The more she became her truest self.

The more, to Hermione Granger's very silent pride, Bellatrix became someone who cared about herself first and foremost and chose to sparingly give to others second.

"He's infuriating. He's been on me since-"

"I don't care. We're going to go see Kingums and then afterward it is a mental health day at the Hog's Head."

"We've got to go to work, Bellatrix. We have reports to file and things to do and Gregor will want to see you, thank Kerk, consider the Fudge issue-"

"We can see the fat Scot to inform him we'll be taking a day. For my mental health. For my recently compromised, horribly shaky mental health. I mean, I should tell you that I am beginning to feel a bit evil. Plotting genocide and all that again, particularly racist, you know, vaguely in similarity to that Hitler gentleman you'd been rattling on about. I feel I very much have to be reminded about the dregs of society by surrounding myself with them, and perhaps finding the better once amongst the muck. This should vastly improve my state of mind. My compromised one, you know."

There it was, Hermione noted. Two 'I feels' in one speech.

How emotionally exhausting must that have been.

"Only if Gregor clears us with absolute promise that we are not needed."

"He doesn't want an unstable former Death Eater gallivanting about in the field with a mind full of old ghosts. He would prefer a capable one who is less prone to pulling the trigger, I believe the phrasing goes. I am willing to bet you didn't duck out a day of your academic career, did you, Granger?"

"Some of us actually learned by paying attention."

For a moment she swore she felt Bellatrix take her hand, and she was correct, loosely grabbing her fingers only to let them go and leave them be, like a memory she quickly detached from, "And some of us are going to teach how to not make that effort."

* * *

"I don't have enough words to apologize with." Kingsley began in his booming baritone, up from his desk to close the door behind them both and usher them to the seats before his desk. "There aren't enough words in a language to apologize with. Cornelius Fudge knows we do not condone the use of Dementors after their siding in the war, and after their dismissal from Azkaban."

"Cornelius Fudge doesn't know a damned thing. You can't know anything when your head is filled with Hippogriff shit." Bellatrix scowled, and for a moment there was a hurt to it, a discomfort.

She wondered if the Dementor had retreated where it took up space in Bellatrix's head.

"Minister, this was deliberate. Curiously deliberate. To go after the one person who had even the smallest lead on what's been happening with the Unicorns, and the vandalism on our front door."

He seemed to tense but it showed only in the way his dark eyes widened at their corners, exposed creeping bits of white. There was a very real, very grim sensation to his expression, and it seemed a humanitarian sense of failure.

"To what act of vandalism were you victim, Miss Granger?"

"Someone slaughtered our cat and wrote 'Blood Traitor' on our front door, right at our doorstep, like a welcome sign!" She hissed and spat it, her pupils constricting into small, shrunken dots inside their dark casings. Bellatrix had gone white as she'd been the night before, so rigid even her collarbones threatened to slice their skin, her skeleton to cut through its suit. "So now, for all the good you have been doing from atop your gilded throne, I've got a threat to my family and plain and egregious slander on my name, and you seem very content to push against the logic I have continuously presented you with time and time again: this is, as the Mugglefilth calls it, an inside job!"

Hermione's fingers wandered absently to touch at Bellatrix's wrist, the small ball of the joint, to press down just so and remind her that she was sitting where she was sitting, she was where she was, and the world around her was a tangible place she existed in. Perhaps, Hermione should have admitted, she took for granted Bellatrix's stress levels. Which she didn't often consider when the other woman acted only like a spoiled brat who waved everything off. She listened to the shuddering breath and watched the narrow shoulders slope. She saw, after a few thankful beats, a shaky resolve return.

Kingsley was very quiet for what felt like a century. The disappointment had intensified, and now he seemed openly distressed. This was soaring straight past apology. He had hurtled right into guilt. And as reluctant as he was to admit it, he was fascinated with what he saw before him. Namely how Bellatrix Black, of all people, was actually right. She was right. She had been on the ugly end of a nasty occurrence, the victim, and she was _right_.

"I have very few doubts in my mind you are wrong, Madame Black. You have proven to be nothing but intuitive, quick-thinking, and, much to all of our surprises, fair. And I can't make up for that occurrence, but I can promise more Aurors and better security. We are going to find who it is that's done this. But it's more complicated than that and the Ministry is a tremendous place. We have to first find out where to start, how to go about this."

There was no suspicion when he looked at her. There was only honest to goodness interest that this was how their lives had turned out: siding with one of the worst war criminals since Voldemort himself.

"And Fudge?" Hermione asked, saw the way Bellatrix's jaw steeled and set in its way at the name.

"The concept of firing him worked him into a demanding frenzy that Madame Black attacked him and he responded out of self-defense. The only other two witnesses are backing him up and her hostile nature would be enough at a trial to have her convicted by the Wizengamot and put back in Azkaban. The best I can do about him is to be wiser and watch him with a much closer eye. Make sure he doesn't pull the same stunt again. I- am sorry, but you must both understand how touchy this is. It would be in all our best interests to bide time."

"That sounds cowardice to me." Bellatrix hummed, flippant, her tone cold and airy, "Then again, I suppose it was delusional to expect decency. I forgot the Ministry laws apply only to those who can pay it, not to everyone."

* * *

"Don't lose your mind over it. You've had enough." Hermione was a toucher. She had not been at first, but over time, the more comfortable she got and the more prevalent it got. She touched all the time. Little grazes and motions, a shoulder-squeeze, a brush of her fingers. At first the lack of physical contact had been something almost like a prison sentence.

And then for just a moment this disheveled mess had held her hand and that had made everything so very much easier.

Bellatrix was the opposite of a toucher. She did not touch for emotional contact or connection, not for warmth. She touched to manipulate or discomfort. She touched to intimidate. It was as though the subject of touch had completely lost its intimacy and become, as most of life had seemed to become for her, just another factor in her constant power play. Hermione Granger was often disappointed when she came to this thought, because there was so much more to life than being in control.

"I've had enough of this entire system. And the one good thing that hornblower was good for is the one thing he cannot even _do_. Now I have been generously gifted Cornelius Fudge as a regular fixture in my workplace, and what's worse is I even _have_ a workplace. Great bloody lark my life has become. Have we got any more humiliation for me to endure today?"

"MADEMOISELLE BLACK!"

He came in like a tornado that wreaked havoc mightily across Kansas. Not that a single soul in this room would have gotten the reference, even though Hermione often fancied Gregor the Cowardly Lion in all but cowardice. The man had slung his arm around her tight and she tensed and scowled, fingers tightening, knuckles cracking, entire physique colliding less than gently with the enthusiastic older gentleman so relieved he was teary-eyed. When he detached she hissed and thumbed at the yet-again scabbing wound clapped closed by a flimsy chunk of gauze, wasting not a single second to slide him an unpleasant glare. One could assume a single-armed man didn't have the strength of a two-armed one, but one would be exceptionally wrong.

The very way in which he bellowed the word 'Mademoiselle' made her stomach churn.

"Do try to contain yourself, you over-excitable idiot."

"I was gonna come see yeh after work, and now I don't have to come see anythin' because yer right here!" Hermione groaned, grimaced, and growled ever so slightly at the way he carelessly swept the entirety of its contents carelessly off his desk. Papers and files went flying, and he ushered Bellatrix with fervent gusto to sit atop it. "Are yeh alright? Did that oof-lookin' numpty give yeh any more trouble—"

"Mister Townsend," Hermione cut in, witnessed the blank look on Bellatrix's face that was subtly threatening to tip into rage, but those dark eyes blinked and she just regarded the large man with ineffable boredom, "We were wondering if you would mind terribly letting us both have the day. After all the duress—"

"Yeh thought I was gonna keep yeh here to work today? Merlin's breeks, no, lass! If I had my own way I'd give yeh a week's sojourn, but it's gotten to be a mess around here. The lad was a great stroke of genius, though, Miss Granger. Kerk's organized all of Madame Black's paperwork."

"Well, now I can stop being so dreadfully concerned." Bellatrix split a sardonic smile, one that screamed in its falsity. It looked much more like a large shark trying very hard to be friendly with a guppy. Because that was actually what it was. "Lost sleep over it in my psychotic break, I did."

"Well yeh haven't a thing to worry 'bout. We have the fort held down. Go have a great nap."

"Yes. The enchanted bottle of firewhiskey will tuck me in and tell me whimsical bedtime stories."

Hermione stifled a small laugh, admittedly, and immediately forced her expression into an attempt at sensibility. She didn't know why she'd found it funny, but she did. Perhaps it was a need for the brief lightness of laughter. Regardless, Bellatrix drew her eyebrows together in a bit of surprise and wasted no time exiting.

"But Kerk—" Hermione protested.

"I have wasted all my social points. I have to replenish them with alcohol."

* * *

The Three Broomsticks was always inviting, but if anyone knew a single thing about Bellatrix Black they knew she needed no invitation to anything. The more reluctant it was to have her in its company, the more she chose to invade it. And this meant that the cheerful atmosphere was just begging for its ruination.

"I don't particularly think this is a good idea." Hermione said uneasily, and inclined her head to glance at the sign. They'd both changed and felt considerably less crawling than they had without a stop home, and Bellatrix found herself in a black babydoll dress, a strapless affair with bits of lace adorning the cleavage cut. As per usual Hermione, in her Muggle jeans and her red button-up blouse, felt fairly muted.

"You would deny me." To anyone else's ears it was a question, but to Hermione's it was a statement.

"No, no I wouldn't. I just mean perhaps we should have—"

"Kept on hiding in our hobbit hole with no plans to ripple any still waters outside."

"Have you been reading my Tolkien novels?"

"I've read every scrap of paper in the house more than six times, you bloody idiot, I haven't got a life."

"Alright. Then one drink. Just one. And you behave yourself. I take it the entire community isn't going to be very friendly to either of us."

"You obviously haven't been well acquainted with my bar etiquette. I assure you, it's much better than my etiquette everywhere else."

"So you mean you're a pleasant drunk? Because I seem to recall you being rather moody."

"Just step into the Merlin-forsaken tavern and quit your banter. I'm beginning to feel unpleasantly wed to you, and I've surpassed all that marriage nonsense."

* * *

"No. You can't move that piece that way."

"I can bloody well move that piece however the fuck I like, thank you."

It had been one drink. Then two drink. Three drink. Four. Hermione was still counting and Bellatrix was not counting at all, but Madam Rosmerta did not seem entirety too thrilled to have her in the establishment. It had taken a grand total of twenty minutes of coercing conversation, but once she and Bellatrix had bonded over unwanted advances (Amycus Carrow had been Bellatrix's, and strangely Madam Rosmerta's was Rubeus Hagrid, which was not unwanted, nor nearly as creepy as Bellatrix's so much as it was—perhaps just improbably odd) the older woman had been feeding her their paycheck's worth to drink her weight in Firewhiskey.

Truth be told, the more Hermione watched, the more fascinated she became. She could be civil. Snarky, perhaps sarcastic, slightly scathing, but Bellatrix could be civil.

"That piece doesn't do that!" Hermione exclaimed. And the pawn took a vicious shot at the knight, sending the whinnying horse across the board with a skittery gallop.

"The pieces do whatever I please. Your parents have no magical abilities. Are you to sit here and gape at a cheated game of chess?" Bellatrix smirked pleasantly, batting her long, full eyelashes, and leaned back to uncross and elegantly recross her legs.

"Cheated! You're cheating!"

"Brightest witch of her age!" Bellatrix howled enthusiastically, held an open palm in grand display, and Hermione turned a sharp shade of reddish pink.

"Shame the brightest witch of her own resorts to underhanded tactics because she can't win fair and square!"

The look of offense was only momentary, but it rapidly spilled over and into an amusement that streamed down her face like tributaries. Bellatrix's grins were maps, her smirks were the ways the stars filled the sky when the sun went down. They were things that took time, but once present, once seen, they were almost alarming in the grand scheme they created.

"I wanted to spare your feelings." She reached forth, placed a hand atop Hermione's knuckles briefly, and there was too much alcohol in her, too little in Hermione, too much husk to that voice, too little honesty to that heavy hand. "But I suppose we'll play even, now, since you'll whine about it."

"What are you doing in this perfectly civilized establishment, filth?"

Bellatrix's hand flicked back to her side in a flash, and she regarded with some silent, feverish frustration the woman who had addressed her. She was familiar, and Hermione knew that, at least, because she remembered her from the Wizengamot what seemed forever ago.

"And here I thought my evening would so uninterrupted. How do you do, Daphne?" The woman might have been a relative, if one was really pressed to consider it. All thick, dark, well-tamed hair and the pretty looks of a lovely starlet. She lacked the regal elegance of the Black lineage, though, the commanding air that made its home in their concave cheekbones and distinguished faces.

"Your Mudblood took you out for a walk today. That must be why you've the nerve to pollute perfectly fine public property. And I would _do_ just fine if it weren't for—you."

"You mistake me for your husband Tiberius, pet. That would be who you mean when you say if it weren't for 'you'." Through even a whiskey-laden haze Bellatrix clawed to the surface, and the surface was abundant with gleeful little insults scattered about. She grasped them eagerly as Hermione looked on. She couldn't find it in herself to understand if this was some kind of high school era Bellatrix she was witnessing, made of catty, come-hither tactics. "Or has he stopped being the cause of that 'you'? I fondly remember his appalling face."

"You caused this mess, Black, I'm warning you..." There seemed to be tears in her eyes, and their softer honey-brown was lovely, the color utterly mismatched to the nature of her tone. But she'd clearly had some amount to drink. It sat high on her cheeks, that flush.

"A Rivens telling a Black what to do." Bellatrix's head dropped back, and her laugh was diffierent. It wasn't a mad cackle, wasn't a shrill giggle. It was a full, mirthful, mocking sound. "What sort of independent thinking have you stumbled into, Daphne? I haven't caused any mess. I have, in fact, been cleaning them up with frequency."

"You're still a mongrel. You're just one who's fed now, occasionally." But her voice was strained, this supposed Daphne, and there was a wavering sound to the watery weight of her words. Like each one was nothing but a useless struggle, and they were fabricated things, wafers that melted on the tongue and dissolved.

"Go home, Daphne. Place the blame and your head in a lap where it's more deserved than mine, though we both know you've gone the opposing route before."

"They'll kill you. And you'll die like you should have. _Just like you should have."_

"Alright," Hermione piped in, a hand pressed to her temple, "Alright, that's quite enough."

"You haven't a say, Mudblood—"

"She has every say, Rivens. Her genetic predisposal isn't more putrid than your spinelessness."

Bellatrix quickly darted her hands away as they were licked swiftly by a torrent of uproarious flames, and both she and Hermione knocked over their respective chairs to escape the now-flaming chessboard between them.

"Bollocks!" Bellatrix shouted over the panicking yells of a couple dozen patrons. And with tears still streaming down her face and Bellatrix Black completely unaware of what it was she was being blamed for (for fucking once), Daphne Rivens hurled a _Deprimo_ right at her that simultaneously fanned the mass of flames alarmingly close and smashed the chair behind her to splintered bits.

"I can't take you anywhere." Hermione snapped, teeth gritted, and yanked Bellatrix violently from where she swayed just a moment. "That woman is going to kill us, and she's going to burn down the Three Broomsticks to do it! Are all your exes insane or ruthlessly talented in combat?!"

"No one said a word about exes!" Bellatrix shot back, "But yes, if you must know, she's very capable of killing either of us, though me far less than you!"

"Surprise, that!" Hermione shouted back, and they dodged a jet of water intent on outing the flames. Well, to be correct, Hermione forcefully tugged Bellatrix about, until they were outside and Daphne Rivens was nowhere to be seen. For a moment Hermione sputtered, coughed up a bit of smoke, and Bellatrix leaned heavily against her shoulder through what had been a pleasant buzz but was now a nauseated, frustrated discomfort.

"Good to know that my former allies hate me as much as my enemies do."


	28. King of Wishful Thinking

Even an attempt at relaxing had soured Bellatrix's attitude. Daphne Rivens, an old acquaintance of sorts, had drunkenly blamed some abstract problems on the woman, who for once was behaving quite well. The ordeal had ended with the Three Broomsticks partially crumbling beneath scorched beams, an injunction filed by Gawain Robards, the head of the Auror office, that forbade anyone within Hogsmeade from selling Bellatrix Black any sort of alcohol, and a furiously insistent Bellatrix who refused to do anything but yell.

"I was completely within line!" Bellatrix shouted. Gawain blinked his rather light green eyes. He was a handsome man, old but not older, and he had the stern but fair look of a gentleman who had been interested actively in justice but not particularly interested in its technicalities. Gawain had been an Auror what felt like all his life, and at the age of thirty-seven he was promoted to head of the Auror office by Rufus Scrimgeour, who he respected immensely for his credentials in spite of his brash actions. Gawain had a full head of yellowish, straight hair that hid its silvering strands well inside the tawny color, and for a man whose nose was slightly large it was well fitted to his face, a Roman nose if there ever was one.

"Perhaps precautions are wise." He impressed Hermione. Not quick to anger, levelheaded, and unlike the tone most took when addressing the older Black his was almost neutral. If he had gone to Hogwarts, Hermione thought, this man had been a Hufflepuff.

"Would you enjoy filing an injunction that forbids me breathing as well, you ignorant, disrespectful little boy?"

"Madame Black," He continued, and his expression did not change or twist. It remained, and Hermione keenly observed that the scant mustache above his upper lip was a collection of pale blonde hairs. "I've been informed by the Minister that you've been in some trouble as of late. Maybe minimizing the potential for trouble is the answer."

"If Daphne isn't tossed in a jail cell for arson and unlawful and malicious intent I am through with this. I'll rot in Azkaban for vigilantism. I'll bake the brains inside her skull and jumble them about when I've finished. There is certainly no possible way, under any circumstance, you can pin this on me."

"I'm not, Madame Black, and I didn't intend to. If Miss Granger and the rest of these patrons speak for you justly, as they have, I have no reason to condemn you for another's actions. Madame Rivens will answer to the court for this, and for an infraction inside the spell limits. Incineration is certainly not one of the allowed magics."

"Just fantastic. I'll resign myself to housebound alcoholism without company or pleasantries, then."

"You have company. I live with you." Hermione corrected, rather irritably.

"I would rather you didn't drink with me."

"Madame Black, Miss Granger. You should head home. I've heard unfriendly weather is rolling in. You won't want to be caught in a storm."

"Bloody foreshadowing." Bellatrix scoffed, and waved in a surprisingly cordial manner before she yanked sharply at Hermione's wrist and began to bodily drag her out of Hogsmeade, swearing all the while.

* * *

Hermione shook free of the grip once they'd trudged far enough to apparate to their home, choosing instead to loosely hang onto Bellatrix's hand without much care. It had become a standard connection between them both, and though Bellatrix's strides were very long for a woman who was not nearly as tall as they implied, Hermione had learned to quicken her step.

"So, Daphne Rivens..." She trailed awkwardly, felt the scaly roughness where Bellatrix's palms had been singed. It was a subtle reminder. She'd have to take a look once they were home, and it nagged at Hermione's brain that the stubborn nuisance of a unicorn impalement had gone so many hours without proper fussing.

"We were in- cohort..." For a moment the older woman grappled with the word, seeming as unsure of it as her preference to a taste. But there was a fine edge to it, 'cohort', like it was a word she could only say in that silken French Hermione heard her speak here and there. "That isn't the word I want at all. Though I am right, of course."

"Is 'cahoots' the word you were looking for?" Hermione inquired helpfully. Bellatrix's expression seemed irate to need correction, but she shrugged her narrow shoulders and brushed it off moodily.

"Yes. I suppose. She was a friend. Once, a very helpful one. -Oh. Is Granger jealous?"

That sardonic cancer of a smirk highlighted Bellatrix's rouge tinted lips. She felt the way she was pulled back in her tracks and fell in line only gracefully, gladdened by what she hoped was embarrassed outrage. It was enough to let her stoop against Hermione's ear, burying her nose there cheerfully in this bright spot within an otherwise darkening day, "Little pet's jealous. Master paid attention to another puppy. Jealous, jealous, jealous."

"I'm not jealous!" She snarled, suddenly quite feisty, and when Bellatrix was shoved viciously off she giggled in shrill shrieks at the red-faced Hermione, "You aren't my master, and I am not jealous! Why would your sexual history be a concern of mine?"

"Because you would rather like to put yourself in my timeline." Bellatrix cooed, and continued to laugh until she was gasping for air.

"Or perhaps remove you from mine! For two minutes stop being such an egotistical arse!"

"You're the only one here yelling." Bellatrix pointed out, a finger raised to illustrate how oh so right she was.

"I don't care half a damn about Daphne Rivens. I care about knowing who it is I should-"

"-You care about the people you actively feel a need to protect me from. It's rather touching, really. Or it would be if I fell at all for your patronising maternal nature toward anyone you deem less mature than yourself."

"Ugh." Hermione had no more words to make. Only a useless, strangled sound that bespoke her aggravation. Perhaps it was because there was no way to win this argument. There were too many cheeky rebuttals to be made, and Bellatrix was trained to wittily banter with intellectuals. Hermione knew where her disadvantages were. Honestly, it was both relieving and rage-inducing that this high society attitude was still at the older woman's disposal.

* * *

The family almost couldn't believe it.

"Audrey's agreed to marry Percy?" Ron asked, cracking a partial snort of a laugh. It had been five days since the explosive phone conversation, but this was enough to drag Ron from his gloomy irritation, and for it Harry was so grateful, indeed. He'd been more avoidant of the Burrow than usual as of late, preferring the home-but-not-quite of Grimmauld Place. At least it wasn't full of people who constantly wanted his attention in one way or another. "Hell must've froze over."

"They want the wedding here." George chortled, though its volume was quite low, and a grin appeared on his face that Harry often noticed looked like it wanted for its partner.

"Audrey does." Ron said pointedly. "I bet Audrey does. Perce probably wants it in some posh old hall or something. Kind of place you'd pay five hundred galleons an hour for."

"Mum's having a hippogriff over it." George peered briefly over his shoulder, then comically over the other. Molly wasn't around, but who ever knew in the Weasley household? Arthur was in work, and it was a day off for the remaining residents. With Ginny finishing out her final year back at Hogwarts the Burrow was mostly a boys' club, these days. "Helping them get everything right perfect. I'm still setting up Percy's altar surprise."

"Altar surprise?" Ron snickered a bit, "What have you got planned? Mum's going to kill you. Perce won't, he hasn't got the nerve. But mum will."

"It's a surprise, Ron. You'll know when it happens! Or maybe it won't. Who knows? Maybe that's the surprise." The lanky, larger brother winked serruptitiously toward Harry, who muffled his smirk with his own teacup as Ron pouted grumpily. Was there a joke he was missing out on?

The day went on as normal until Harry made a grievous error in judgment and stepped right on an eggshell he had forgotten to walk around. There was a brief mention about how nice a proper do would be, a good reason to celebrate, and to get them all together for an evening like old times. And once Hermione's name had come up, he realized he had erred on the side of danger.

"You reckon Percy will invite her?" Ron sighed, and teetered between almost furious and slightly disappointed.

"Awfully quick to treat her like a stranger on the street." Harry spat back. He felt no need to keep it in check, either, and as of late that had been his problem to own.

"Whose side are you on, mate!?" his brows furrowed together, frustrated, and altogether wounded. This entire balancing act had taken so much out of Harry that he hardly knew what to do anymore, and it had created enough tension to choke a thestral, if thestrals even breathed. Between attempting to repeatedly assure Ron that Hermione was wrong wrong wrong, only succeeding in fanning the rejected, disappointed flames of her son's injured ego, and Hermione's not-so-thinly-veiled resentment at the whole situation the boy who lived was beginning to crack.

"My parents are dead, Ron, I would've used the bloody resurrection stone if maybe I wanted to experience their divorce!" He pressed his hands to his temples and the moment he stood up so did Ron, just as quickly, the two of them sharply squaring each other down. "It's been a year. Do you both just intend to never actually be in the same room together ever again? We got through a war together!"

"And she's scrapped all of it to turn her back on us for a mental old hag who's got almost as much fault as the dark lord himself!"

"And she's not thrilled about us working in the most dangerous career path the wizarding world has to offer, either, but we're both doing it anyway, aren't we?!"

There was quiet, and a look of guilt shifted Ron's lips immediately into an expression like he was trying very hard to wrap his mouth around something much too big to fit in it. It was, as Harry often recognized, the look that crossed Ron's face whenever he was sourly accused of being wrong.

"Well—" Ron began, suddenly flushed, "—what are we supposed to do about any of this, Harry!?"

In spite of all this, Harry reached up, pressed a finger against the center of his aged, round glasses and let out a heave of a sigh that felt like the world rolling from his shoulders. It was so rapid that on the way down it seemed to flatten the back of his neck.

"I don't know. There isn't a manual for getting on with a complete arse who also happened to be our former enemy. I think this is just a ride we have to go on."

"I didn't sign up for any of this." Ron muttered. He flopped defeatedly on the couch cushion with his arms crossed, his hands hugging his elbows tightly. For a moment, Harry thought, he could see the shadow of a very young boy there, a Ronald Weasley when they were only small. The one who sometimes sulked when he didn't get his way. And to some extent, he often knew, he loved that he knew these awful, irritating things about his best friends. It meant they were so very much his family. "I didn't, mate. I fancied her, and she did seem to fancy me, didn't she?"

"Yeah, Ron, she did." And he hesitated to say she does because, to be honest (and this left Harry's stomach in a series of knots), he was not entirely sure she did anymore. He remembered her bloodshot, weary eyes and the tremble in her tone when she said, spilling over with tears, 'I looked at her and there wasn't anyone at all looking back.' Now, he felt very unsure of absolutely everything. "But I don't think right now she has any clue of what's going on. I think she's trying to find something."

"She could've found it with me." Ron said gloomily. "I don't get why she has to race off on some kind of bloody crusade to save some nutter from a fate she deserves."

For the first time in awhile Harry Potter sat down beside Ronald Weasley and did not feel as though he was braving the possibility of his head ripped off his own neck. He awkwardly reached over to touch the other man at the arm, to push him just slightly at the shoulder, the brother he had never had, and he spoke with a very even tone, "'Mione was never like us. She wasn't ever like anyone we knew, Ron."

"Yeah." Ron said, and the next bit sounded like a death sentence. "That's always why I liked her."

* * *

For a number of days everything had been rather slowed down. The forcible recovery time imposed on them both by Gregor was something of a curse. Bellatrix was restless and frustrated, but there was a certainly visible tremor to her neither of them addressed. Hermione knew talking about it would shut the older woman down, so she spoke in a voice just a bit softer and avoided startling her at all. The vacation was a joint package.

The first surprise came in with the wind. The enormous scratch at the window was the sound of a large bird of prey assaulting the pane, and both heads turned so sharply from the couch in perfect unison it was almost choreographed.

Bellatrix's eyes narrowed, until she took a closer look, standing from the cushion and her face softened to a strangely open confusion. The adolescence of it all made Hermione sit up ever straighter. She placed a hand atop the back of the couch and half-turned, "What is it...? Be careful."

"My nephew's owl." Bellatrix said, with something that might have been the most unguarded tone Hermione had ever heard her use. When she opened the window, briefly struggling with the latch, the considerably sized bird thrust a piece of expensive parchment into Bellatrix's waiting grasp and landed at the sill.

The creature's brilliantly ochre eyes watched Bellatrix carefully and he nipped strongly at her fingers, leaving a sharp outline where his beak had snipped. The feathers ruffled up irritably, white as they were with strong black accents, and atop his head the great feathers that tapered up like eyebrows pressed against his face. The owl let out a hoot, and it sounded curiously like a hoot would if it were played on a violin by a very quick slice of the bow.

"Wait, you impatient fowl." Bellatrix instructed, and the owl hooted again, ruffling up, staring at Hermione with a scrutinizing glare. She took a piece of parchment, scrawled across it with a quill (Hermione did not see, and she did not dare to intrude), and handed it over to the bird once she'd bound it with a sliver of dark ribbon. "Off with you. And see to it you don't greet my nephew with the same force that you greeted me. You'll tear the tender flesh off his fingers."

The owl departed with another hoot and Hermione was still sitting with her hands folded, her expression waiting patiently for the explanation. And to her surprise, she got it, and it was without any needling.

"Draco asked me to have a cup of tea with him two days from now. I want to know if Cissy put him up to it. I suppose I'll hope to find out, being your meddlesome nature is always involved—"

"I'm not coming." Hermione's voice was quick, came on a swift decision. "This is between you and your family. I have no part sticking my nose in where it certainly doesn't belong. I'll be nearby, but I'm not going to sit in while the two of you chat."

"And you don't assume we're plotting to raise the Dark Lord's bones and perform a voodoo ritual?"

"You have been reading that Serpent and the Rainbow analysis book of mine again, haven't you? –No. I don't assume that. I do assume you would like to have a friendly outing with your nephew."

"Yes," Bellatrix said, sincerely but somehow coldly, "I would."

Another booming thud at the window followed not too far after and by that point both Witches almost tumbled from their respective activities (Bellatrix was rearranging a few books into her order of the week, this time by publication dates, with a Wingardium Leviosa, and Hermione was correcting her pronunciation that sounded much too enunciated. It wasn't wrong, but it was irritating). This time, surprise number two asserted itself with far less dignity than the first. Much to her surprise, Hermione spotted the small tennis ball of an owl hurtling eagerly into the glass, overworking his little grey body with croak-like calls.

"Pig...?" She asked, and when she opened the window it was unmistakably Pigwidgeon. The owl made the same sounds again, circling overhead happily with a scrap of expensive looking parchment tight in his talons. He released it, the paper fluttering to the floor. In handwriting she did not recognize, it said 'Hermione Granger'. The owl kept on again, loud, and Bellatrix shot a levitation spell at the bird to float him over away from her work. He rolled in place, trapped inside Bellatrix's spell, and flapped his wings frantically. "Do stop that! It's cruel!"

"Read the letter and scratch out a response. Then I'll release this feathered Snitch and he can be on his merry way." She giggled, a small cackle, and flicked her wand with some grandiose cheer. Pigwidgeon twisted this way and that, and he helplessly took to hooting in time as Bellatrix gleefully bounced him in the air. Eventually he began to beat his little wings with the current of the motion, scrabbling his talons, hooting, hooting, hooting.

Hermione, finally satisfied with the idea that the creature wasn't in mortal peril, turned her attention to tearing open the wax 'W' that sealed the letter, "Hermione Granger plus one, we are pleased to invite you to the particularly positive union of Percy Ignatius Weasley and Audrey Selwyn on the eve of next Tuesday. The Weasley family Burrow eagerly awaits this event in celebration of our ever growing family. Ceremony is at 1 pm, festivities to commence afterward."

She stood there and held the shaking paper in her hands, staring down at it with an expression like it was the first time she had ever seen her own Hogwarts letter. She mouthed it again and again and again. Hermione Granger. Plus one. Physical proof that she hadn't been pushed out of their lives.

Without thinking, Hermione had flung herself upon Bellatrix in an embrace so tight that her wand went flying from her grip and skittered sharply across the room, "Hermione Granger, plus one! Did you hear that, Bellatrix, did you? Oh, you must have! We're invited, we're invited!"

Bellatrix's hands tightened and clenched, knuckles cracking at the pressure, and she settled her palms to hover at Hermione's hips like she was desperate to shove her off but could not do a thing about it, "I am not going."

"Cake and humans and music and festivities! Celebrations, lights, color! People!" Hermione shrieked, and she had suddenly seized Bellatrix by the hair enthusiastically, hanging onto that tangle of dark curls as though they reminded her to keep on the ground. "A party, Bellatrix, to a party!"

"I don't want to go." Bellatrix insisted again, her voice sliding into a low growl. She pressed against those hips, then, and wrenched the other off with a terrific push. But Hermione ignored her mightily and tied the parchment to the still-hooting Pigwidgeon's foot, checking the 'yes' box with the largest 'x' she had ever drawn. Bellatrix's tone changed again, nearing the edge of a teakettle close to steaming, "I am not going, Granger."

Hermione had not yelled. She, instead, reached up and gripped Bellatrix at both sides of her head, tugging her down sharply the scarce few inches that caused the smallest rift between them, "You are certainly going, 'plus one'."


End file.
